Chapters Seagulls chirping, squawking. The familiar refrain of any seaside city, one that echoed across the continents, no matter which ocean one was beside. It seemed to be universal, that shrill cry. Together with the tang of salt in the nostrils, it was the surest indicator that one was nearing the edge of the land and the beginning of the water.
It was also extremely annoying.
The ceiling of the room was dusty, faded wooden beams in the dim half-light that filtered in through the shutters. If it weren't for the lack of the familiar swaying motion, it could almost be a compartment aboard ship, or at least aboard one of the old sail-training vessels, preserved relics from the days of wooden ships and iron ponies. An officers' cabin, a real cabin for Captains and Admirals, the kind he would never see the inside of except when summoned for punishment.
The Earl of Greenwood was his name. That was right, The Earl of Greenwood. Or was it...?
Far from the sting of salt, all he could taste was last night's alcohol, whatever the hell he had been drinking. All he knew was there had been plenty of it, and plenty of songs, and plenty of wenches, and...
Wenches. Yes, there was a wench right there next to him, in fact.
Greenwood slowly sat up, and only then did he remember. Greenwood was his name, alright, but he was no Earl. That had been a lie, a ruse to seduce the mares, the fine ladies of Baltimare. Of course, when that had failed, he had ended up in a dockside brothel like all the rest of them. He was Greenwood, yes, but he was Junior Lieutenant Greenwood, Royal Equestrian Navy, assigned to the destroyer ENS Defiant. Now it was all flooding back. All except for the identity of the naked mare he was in bed with, anyway.
Greenwood determined that it did not really matter, and managed to slowly drag himself to his feet. Only then did he begin to wonder where his uniform had gone, for it became apparent that he too was also naked. A few moments' frantic searching ensued before he located his clothing at the foot of the bed. He rifled through everything to make sure it was all there, for to show up aboard the Defiant improperly dressed would earn him a reprimand for certain, and...
Shit.
What time was it? He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for his watch. Eight-oh-five, presumably in the morning. If it wasn't morning, it would be dark by now. Greenwood managed to relax slightly. He was not meant to be back on board until ten. He found her chamber pot and drained his aching bladder into it, half filling it with whatever mixture of alcohol he had consumed the night before. He dressed quietly, hoping to sneak away without waking the whore, for he was uncertain if he had already paid her, and if he hadn't, why wait? The proprietor of this fine establishment would spend days searching high and low for an Earl who did not exist. The Defiant was to sail this very afternoon, and he would not be back in Baltimare for- who knew how long? Perhaps never, if the seas claimed him and Celestia called him home.
There was a mirror in the corner of the room, and he spied himself in it as he dressed. Handsome? Some would say so, for certain. His coat was green, as his name suggested, a lustrous, verdant shade. His dark brown mane and tail? Chestnut perfection. Deep blue eyes? Enchanting. Unexplained substance dripping from his mouth...what...what was that? Blood?
He peered closer and frowned, shattering the illusion. No burnished specimen was he, but a rather bedraggled wreck, like a shallow drafted coaster that had run into heavy weather and ignominiously gone aground. His mane was sprouting off at all angles like the shattered husk of a coconut palm. Not such a pretty sight after all. Not after a night's drinking, at least. He found a comb on the whore's dresser and ran it through his mane, glancing over at her. She was pretty enough, a unicorn, white and pink. He hoped he had chosen wisely, for a voyage across the sea while suffering from the clap was not something to be relished, even with a course of antibiotics from the ship's infirmary. Truth be told he didn't remember choosing at all, but she must be high class to fall asleep with a client instead of kicking him out in favour of the next stallion once the deed was done- unfortunately, that meant she must be expensive, too.
A Junior Lieutenant's salary could not pay for too many rendezvous with whores of any grade, much to Greenwood's chagrin, for his predilection for cheap thrills left him with little money for anything more serious. Those taking Celestia's Bit to fight on the water were, for the most part, not paid particularly well, but at least he got an officer's allowance to pay for his own uniform. He even had enough to purchase his own fine pistol and sword instead of the standard naval issue versions, though not too much to spare for anything else. That was alright for Greenwood, for he had no wife or child to support. Having just seen his twenty-third summer, many might say that he was too old to be a Junior Lieutenant, for they started them young in the Royal Equestrian Navy. But that didn't bother Greenwood either.
The reason for his apparent late blooming was simple- he had only joined the Navy a year earlier, as a lowly Midship-Pony, the lowest commissioned rank and usually reserved for those who were still mere colts and fillies in truth. A Midship-Pony could be aged anywhere between fifteen and eighteen, but in theory a hundred-year old coot with hair growing from his ears would be of the same rank if he joined up as an officer. That was where you started, fresh out of naval training collage at Colthead. As far as officers went, the lowest of the low; but even the most grizzled seapony would have to call you sir or ma'am. It was common enough for those barely into their teens to be addressed as such by sailors who had been in the service for several decades.
The reason Greenwood had been late to the party was that he had been in the Army, not the Navy, for several years. That in itself was unusual, for there were not too many who made the transition from one service to another. There was also a good deal of animosity between the two, especially after it had been decreed that the Navy should train and equip their own force of marines for boarding operations, shore raids and landing parties, instead of carrying soldiers for those purposes. Greenwood had been a Lieutenant of Foot, to use the official term for a junior officer of the infantry, for nearly three years, slogging across the land and fighting off bandits, Griffons and the occasional dragon incursion here, there and everywhere. Early on he had decided that a life of living in mud was not for him; but by the terms of his commission, he had to serve at least two full years as an officer before being eligible for discharge. He had been all ready to turn in his commission at the end of the second year, but, as his luck would naturally have it, a great campaign had been launched to retake the overseas territory of Mare-Isle from the luckless locals, who had dared to attempt secession from Equestria, and his unit had been one of those sent. With no option but to fight until victory was won, Greenwood had been forced to endure another nine months of service, slogging not through mud this time, but through the sand and flies of the Mare-Isle Desert that sprawled across much of the territory.
Haunted by the aridity, the unremitting heat, the lack of water and shade, Greenwood had become more convinced than ever that the Army was not for him. The sailors and officers of the transport ship which had taken his company across the sea, however, seemed to be living another life entirely, one of jolly shanties, plentiful rations, and good company. He had always been fascinated by the sea, but his father, Green Leaf, a former Colonel of the infantry, had pressured him to a more terrestrial command. After the Mare-Isle campaign was over and the territory reclaimed for the Sun and Moon, Greenwood had submitted his request. His discharge had been accepted, allowing him to join the Navy instead; it was a move which angered his father, but pleased his uncle, Green Haze, who was the current and longest-serving Commodore of the Manehattan Squadron, the strongest of the Navy's coastal defence units, assigned to protect the approaches to the city of Manehattan, which housed the largest naval base anywhere in Equestria.
Having previous experience commanding other ponies let Greenwood skip some of the more basic training for junior officers, but he still needed an endorsement, either from his lineage, a contemporary, or some other "pony of note." Most officers in the Navy were either of noble birth, the sons and daughters of current or former officers, or the children of professionals, such as doctors, lawyers, or merchants. That was not technically a requirement, but the practicalities of needing somepony to endorse your application meant that they were the ones by far the most likely to meet that specific criterion for acceptance into the officer training college at Colthead. Though the means of war had evolved, certain aspects of military life had not changed for hundreds of years, a fact of which the Navy was, in some ways, rather unjustifiably proud.
His uncle had been more than happy to act as Greenwood's endorsement, and a recommendation from a Commodore of such long and distinguished service was proof enough for the Admiralty. After the necessary introductory training, Greenwood had been enrolled as a Midship-Pony on the ENS Chrysanthemum, a corvette assigned to his uncle's Squadron. After a year, he had been promoted, in part thanks to his good grasp of seaponyship and in part thanks to his already considerable experience of telling other ponies what to do. Junior Lieutenant was his rank, and the Defiant was his ship.
Well, not his ship. Captain Oakheart's ship, for the old bastard was still very much in command. Greenwood had transferred over six months ago, as the destroyer had found itself lacking one officer after one particularly drab and wet day when the previous incumbent had managed to drink himself into a stupor and use his service pistol for an entirely unapproved action of taking his own life, which technically made him eligible for sixty-four lashes for negligent discharge of a weapon and unapproved use of a firearm aboard ship. Oakheart had not been overly keen on having a former Army brat aboard his vessel, but was in no position to fight the transfer. As Captain of a mere destroyer, he had to accept whatever he could get; the best and brightest were usually sent to the capital ships of the line instead, the heavy cruisers and battleships, those great behemoths of the seas that could outfight anything else on the water.
Greenwood adjusted his uniform, a smart dark blue frock coat with gold brocade on the right shoulder to indicate his rank of Junior Lieutenant, a white waistcoat and undershirt, similar white breeches, a black belt with gold buckle, black boots, and a scabbard to hold his sword. Greenwood completed the ensemble- a bicorn hat, dark blue with gold trim, planted squarely upon his head. Now he was ready. Dress uniform, still with the old style head covering. For combat he would dress in something far more practical, but appearance, when in port at least, was still everything.
"Going somewhere, sailor boy?"
Greenwood looked around. The whore had awoken, much to his consternation, for he could remember neither her name nor her price. "Oh...uh...yes. Yes, I have to..." He decided to get poetic. "The sea calls me."
She snorted and shook her head. "Right. The sea, or perhaps you just like the weight of those bits in your purse a little too much to part with them? Come along. Eighty." She sat up, her breasts bared, holding out her hand.
"Did I not already pay you for your services, my fair lady?" Greenwood asked hopefully.
"You wish..." she teased. "Eighty bits."
"Very well..." Greenwood sighed, rummaging for his coin purse and handing over four shiny gold twenty-bit pieces. "Your payment, as requested..."
"Thank you kindly, good sir." She smiled sweetly. "May Celestia bless and keep you. Do you sail today?"
"I can't divulge such information..." Greenwood shook his head. "You could be a spy for all I know."
"A spy?" she chuckled. "Who for? Besides, for all you know, you might have already told me all your ship's secrets last night."
"My ship has no secrets," Greenwood wagged a finger at her. At least, none that I know about.
"Well, either way, come back safely and I'll give you a discount next time," the whore replied. "Just ask for me by name."
"I see...thank you. The, uh...the name was...?" Greenwood felt himself blushing.
"Rosehip," she replied, rolling her eyes. "You really were pissed out of your mind last night, hm? I hope you didn't get up to anything...improper. Apart from visiting a brothel, of course."
Not that I can recall...
"Yes, well...thank you, Rosehip. I must be going now..." Greenwood glanced at his watch again before replacing it in his waistcoat. "Goodbye. I may well call on you when we return to port." He headed for the door, adopted a suitably officerly manner, and left the room, closing the door behind him and making his way down the creaky hall and staircase. The brothel's bar was quiet and dark, with the smell of stale, spilled alcohol heavy in the air. Greenwood felt slightly nauseous just from the smell, and left the building, blinking in the sunlight.
The brothel fronted onto a small street, narrow, with leaning walls looming above him. it was a typical dockside alleyway, to be found in any coastal town- straw on the cobbled stones, an empty flower-barrow here, a fat old drunkard lolling listlessly against a doorway there. Above everything was the smell of the sea, the salty tang in the nostrils so familiar to every sailor.
Greenwood set course for the quay, following his nose toward where the smell of the sea was strongest. On the way he ducked into an inn for a hot bowl of porridge and some salted kippers, something to fill his belly and absorb whatever obscene quantity of rum and ale he had consumed the night before. Only then did he resume and complete his journey, turning a corner and coming face to face with the dockside.
Baltimare harbour was a great, sweeping curve of land which had been converted into a maze of piers, jetties and quays, all protected from the elements by a mighty headland, the Dragon Point, named for its resemblance to a drake's spiny back and tail thanks to its undulating terrain. The city nestled into the landscape, smoke curling into the air from a thousand chimneys in the slight morning haze. There were several merchantponies, fat and slow cargo vessels, tied up and being loaded. Farther down the dock lay the military piers, where the Defiant was waiting. Out in the roads, the great naval parking lot in the outer bay, sat several gunmetal-grey capital ships, too big to easily be navigated through the harbour and too long to tie up to most of the piers. They were the heavy hitters of the Equatorial Fleet, the small naval formation that was responsible for the southern region of the Great Western Sea which separated the continent of Equestria from the now-pacified Dragon Lands, formerly a foe but now an ally, and the sun-scorched Mare Isle, the would-be independent territory that had been reclaimed by Equestria from its upstart breakaway government.
Greenwood made his way down to the destroyer, flashing his identity card and A gang of seaponies, sailors of the navy and the lowest ranks aboard ship, were loading up sacks of flour and crates of machine parts onto the Defiant, ready for departure. They were singing a local shanty as they worked, a favourite of crews from this part of the land, referencing a legendary corsair and her luckless crew.
They said we'd sail the seas, for Zebrican gold! We'd face their guns and show no fear! Now I'm a broken colt on a Baltimare pier, The last of Starbuck's Privateers!
The Defiant was, in stark contrast to the freighters, a handsome vessel. A long, slender ship, the Defiant had the typical sleek lines of most Equestrian destroyers, from the pointed prow to the pair of swept-back funnels and the boxy, though curved, superstructure. There was a step-down amidships where the rear half of the vessel had much less freeboard than the forward half, thanks to the big, sweeping prow designed to cut straight through the water. Some though had been given by the designers to aerodynamics as well as hydrodynamics, for a great slab-faced vessel with a huge cross-section would find a heavy wind setting her back and robbing her of a few vital knots of speed, no matter how powerful her engines, to say nothing of the concomitant waste of fuel. Being shapely above as well as below the waterline was thus as important in the Defiant's line of work as it was in the whore's- what was her name? He had half forgotten already.
Speaking of lines of work, Defiant came well equipped for a ship of its relatively small size. Destroyers had a single main purpose in life- to close with an enemy battle line and fire torpedoes from flank-mounted tubes. The Defiant had six such tubes, three on the port side, three on the starboard. Each torpedo was twenty-one inches in diameter and twenty feet in length, and contained seven hundred pounds of high explosive that could rip through the hulls of any vessel afloat, including battleships, the current kings of the seas. There were also four four-inch guns in turrets, two forward and two aft, for engaging smaller targets or bombarding an enemy on the land, as well as half a dozen machine guns for close defence and striking enemy patrol boats or sea mines. Two rapid-firing guns in high-angle mounts were fitted atop the superstructure for defence against enemy air-infantry and airships. At the rear of the ship were two racks of depth charges, metal canisters filled with explosives and designed for use against hostile submarines. All in all, the Defiant was quite the vessel, a proud ship with a good six years' service under her belt, sailing for the Princess in patrol actions against the breakaway Mare-Isle Republic, the Griffons, and the iniquitous pirates of the southern archipelago that even modern weaponry and tactics seemed unable to entirely dislodge from their limpet-like hold over the island chain. Over the years they had proved to be as tenacious as a dose of the clap- something Greenwood hoped to have avoided, though he hoped he had at least put his weapon to good use, even if he had no memory of it.
Another surprise was waiting to greet him near the Defiant's gangway, though a more pleasant one than a hefty price tag for a night he couldn't remember. His brother, Greenshield, clad in the dull khaki of his infantry regiment's battle fatigues, stood waiting with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a broad grin on his youthful face.
"Did you forget what an officer looks like, Sergeant?" Greenwood asked with a stern expression as he approached, before breaking into a matching smile and embracing his younger sibling. "Shield! What the hell are you doing here?" he laughed. "I thought you were shipping out tonight?"
"We are," Greenshield replied, nodding, his jet black mane, cropped short and slicked back with oil in the style of many members of the infantry, shifting gently with the motion of his head. Like his older brother, Shield's coat was a rich green, though his eyes, by contrast with the bright blue of Greenwood, were of a pale shade of amber. The pair of gold stars upon a red background upon his lapels marked him out as a Senior Sergeant, despite his youthful, handsome looks. While the Army did not take them quite as young as the Navy, the twenty-year old Greenshield had already served for two years, from the day he had finished school and snubbed the Naval College. Perplexingly for his father and uncle alike, he had also snubbed the War College, where land officers were trained, and instead had joined up as an enlisted pony, citing the example of two of his fellow school-pupils, as well as the camaraderie among the mud-sloggers he had read about in the one-bit novels, as well as stories from his older brother when Greenwood had been home on leave and speaking fondly of the ponies under his command.
"They're still sending you to Northwick, are they?" Greenwood asked. The distant, frigid territory was the home of the descendants of the hardy mares and stallions who had claimed the peninsula for Equestria hundreds of years in the distant past, and it was home to a major garrison on the border with the subjugated satellite state of Yakyakistan, from whose territory the province of Northwick had been carved. Halfway down the peninsula lay the port of Harmony Bay, home to the Northern Fleet and also the destination of the Defiant and her crew.
"As far as I know," Greenshield nodded. "We're to board the trains at sunset. I suppose by tomorrow we'll be in the arse end of nowhere, rattling through the countryside, looking at Celestia-knows what."
"Not much to see, is there?" Greenwood grinned. The rail line from Baltimare to Northwick's capital, the inaptly-named Fair Valley, was not a renowned tourist route, being comprised mostly of unending farmland until the terrain began to become painfully barren as they reached the northern climes and the temperature began to drop, even in summer.
"Guess we'll find out," Greenshield replied. "What about you? Do you know where you're going yet?"
"I can tell you but I'd have to kill you," Greenwood patted his brother on the shoulder. "But if you get posted to Harmony Bay, I'll buy you a beer. At least I assume there's somewhere to buy beer there. I gather it's a pretty inhospitable place."
"Of course there'll be somewhere to buy beer," Greenshield smirked. "Everypony knows that the Navy doesn't operate anywhere it can't get a drink."
"Don't let Captain Oakheart hear you say that, he'll hang you from the yardarm," Greenwood answered. "You practically have to force his hand to get the rum and vodka issued to the seaponies every day. Anyway, it was good to see you. I really should get aboard..." He checked his watch.
"Yeah, where were you anyway? I was standing here like a lemon for half an hour. The only idiot in khaki anywhere on this Sun-forsaken dock," Shield laughed.
"Oh...just...an important affair, nothing important," Greenwood contradicted himself within his own answer, which raised an eyebrow from his brother.
"I see...and her name was...?"
Greenwood rolled his eyes. "Why do you assume it was anything of that sort?" A small smirk began to form at the corner of the younger brother's mouth, and he relented quickly. "Fine, I can't remember, ok? Something Heart...Rose something...something like that."
"Rose? Ah..." Greenshield winced. "I'd set course for your ship's doctor and get a course of antibiotics first thing aboard, in that case...you know...not the cleanest of ladies..." The Lieutenant's look of alarm caused Shield to burst into laughter and give him a playful nudge. "You know I'm messing with you. I'm sure she was fine! Anyway..." He gave Wood another hug. "I'll see you up north, maybe. Stay safe out there."
"You too, brother," Greenwood replied. The brotherly hug was replaced by a smart salute from the Senior Sergeant, and the Lieutenant returned it in kind before turning on his heel and marching up the gangway, returning another salute from the bosun at the top, and several more from passing crewponies as they prepared the destroyer for sea. Before entering the superstructure he turned and raised a hand in farewell to his younger brother. Greenshield raised his high in return, and the two siblings parted, one to the train yard, the other to the open ocean and whatever lay beyond.
What a lovely place this was. Golden fields of wheat, cherry blossoms floating on a gentle breeze like a ticker-tape parade, all for him and him alone, for nopony else was around. It was his, all his, the silence, the peace and tranquility. It was home, but it was not home; it was how home used to be, years ago, when he was a foal and his mother was still alive. He expected to see her, but he was alone in the field this time, and suddenly a shrill whistle was filling his ears and the world was melting away, falling, fading, and above everything, the piercing sound and the blood-red light...
"Action Stations, Action Stations! All hands to Action Stations! Up and for'ard on the starboard side, down and aft on the port side. Action Stations, Action Stations!"
The klaxon hammered through Greenwood's skull as he scrambled from his bed. Always when I'm off duty, he lamented, tugging on his trousers. Junior Lieutenant Tracer, his cabin-mate, was also up, grabbing his steel helmet from the rack beside the door of the claustrophobic compartment as Greenwood followed the Pegasus out into the companionway. The blood-red emergency lighting made the scene appear something straight from hell, as ponies pounded over the metal deck plating, looking like a stampede but actually a carefully coordinated ballet of sorts, each mare and stallion knowing exactly where they were going and what they were doing.
Greenwood climbed up the ladder to the next deck, where the scene was repeated, and then again twice more to reach the bridge, the command centre of the vessel midway up the superstructure. There, Captain Oakheart and the duty watch were presiding over the scene that lay beyond the viewports. The open, placid sea lay all around, and in the distance, there was smoke on the horizon.
"Observers report surface contact, bearing zero-one-zero, range one-four miles, speed ten knots. Profile matches commerce raider Punch-Drunk, " the officer of the watch called, relaying messages from the Pegasi flyers above the ship who took it in turns to keep a watch over the distant horizon in good weather, able to see far farther than those on deck.
"Very good," Oakheart replied with a nod, the craggy-jawed, mustachioed unicorn standing firm with his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the bow of the Defiant. The water foaming around the bow of the vessel was the same shade as Oakheart's body. The sea was within his blood. "Sound battle stations," he ordered. "All ahead full, prepare guns for engagement." He turned to Greenwood as other crewponies and officers relayed his commands. "Mister Greenwood, good morning. Port torpedo officer, if you please."
"Aye, Captain!" Greenwood replied. Oakheart was assigning him to command the port battery of torpedo tubes, evidently anticipating some utility for them in whatever engagement might follow with the commerce raider. The pirates of the southeastern islands were a menace to all civilian shipping, and though they were no match for an Equestrian or Zebrican fleet, they loved to prey on isolated steamers and freighters plying their trade, steal their cargoes, and ransom their crews. The only reason Equestria had not simply occupied the archipelago and wiped out the pirates was because of a territorial dispute, one of several, with Zebrica, the independent nation at the southern end of the main continent who also claimed sovereignty over the islands. Diplomatic talks had stalled several times over the status of the archipelago, and while they stagnated, the pirates grew stronger, a rag-tag mixture of ponies, Zebras, Yaks, Diamond Dogs and a dozen other races, all united under the mercenary flags of the quasi-independent region.
The Punch-Drunk was one of the pirates' larger vessels, the rough equivalent to a Navy corvette or coastal cutter, a former merchantpony retrofitted with armour and guns by the pirate engineers. It was not as fast as a destroyer, nor as well armed or protected, but when it ran up against a fat freighter, the poor civilian crew would have only two options- surrender, or die. If they surrendered, prisoners they would become, held for ransom, with suitable notes sent either to the merchant line or the national government which had chartered them. They preyed on Zebrican ships, Equestrian ships, even the odd Kirin tea-clipper with their narrow hulls and broad sails, though such vessels were rare on the high seas, for the Kirin had mostly been in a state of self-imposed isolation for the last century.
Greenwood, like most navy officers, hated the pirates, believing fervently that the brigands gave all mariners a bad name. Sailing was a noble creed, and always had been, even for those of common birth. It was pure, an expression of life against nature, not something to be bastardized for illicit profit. Conflict, if it came for the sailor, should be against the wind and the waves, or at least against an equally noble foe engaged in the conduct of war, not piracy. This philosophy was part of the mindset of the officer classes of the Royal Equestrian Navy for one simple reason- that was how it had always been. Since the days of sail, when black-powder cannons roared and swords led the charge both on land and sea, pirates had been frowned upon, as had the privateers, pirates in all but name but carrying a commission from the Princess or some other foreign leader to, most often, chase down and destroy other pirates. Those days were long gone- no private individual save a few industrialists could hope to afford their own cruiser or battleship the way the privateers of old could pay for a brig or schooner- but the mindset remained.
It was not the only thing that was firmly wedded in the past. The leadership of the Navy had stagnated, too. Most of the Admirals were from noble stock, not because of their ability but merely their titles and bloodline. To a lesser extent that was also the case within the Army, but the Navy seemed to almost embrace the old-fashioned concept of seniority through social class, rather than skill. The Princesses, oddly, had done little to dissuade that notion among the Navy, perhaps sharing with some of the Navy's own commanders a deeply pessimistic view of their worth in any conflict that might break out in the near future. That, too, had one simply explanation- Equestria occupied the majority of the largest continent, with their most common enemies occupying the rest. Zebras, Yaks, Griffons, all historical adversaries, all shared the same landmass with the ponies, meaning that the majority of Equestria's military expenditure had to be directed toward the Army. A land war was always an imminent possibility. A naval war, less so.
Greenwood emerged from the hatchway and out onto the port side of the ship. The sea raced past below as the ship's oil-fired boilers span its twin propshafts and drove the craft to thirty knots, foam spraying over the bow coaming as they hauled in the slower pirate craft. The torpedo tubes lay ahead, and the Junior Lieutenant made his way carefully to them. He was wearing a life preserver, filled with kapok and cork for buoyancy, but even so, with the ship committed to an attack, if he fell overboard he might well drift far enough from their current course to make any future search for him futile. Drowning was an ever-present danger, but certainly not the way anypony wanted to die.
The torpedo crew were ready, already at their battle stations, with the tubes loaded, manned and prepared, awaiting the word from the bridge via speaking tube or external broadcast circuit to swing out the tubes into the launch position. Eight burly seaponies, stripped to the waist despite the sea spray. It was a warm day- it usually was down in the tropics- and manually loading the torpedoes was tough work, even with unicorn mass-nullification spells to assist with the heavy lifting. The crew consisted of five stallions and three mares, who all wore the standard issue black bra, having removed their undershirts like the stallions had. Some mares took off the undergarment also and went into battle bare-breasted, especially those who worked in the engine or boiler rooms, the coal bunkers of the larger capital ships, and those in the nascent submarine service where excessive heat, especially in the tropics, could change from being uncomfortable to being downright dangerous. All of the torpedo crew wore the same kind of life preserver as Greenwood, plus steel helmets that would, hopefully, provide some modicum of protection from shell splinters and shrapnel.
"Tubes one, two and three ready to fire, sir!" Barleycorn, the crew leader for the torpedo team, informed Greenwood. The bare-chested earth pony was crouching over the angle-of-attack indicator, which would have to coincide with the angle given by the bridge as part of the firing solution, which even now was being worked on by junior officers. Fire control was relatively simple for the ships' guns, as their turrets could rotate through almost 270 degrees of traverse, but the torpedo tubes only had so much room to swivel before they would start to suffer interference from the superstructure of the destroyer. That meant the ship itself had to be pointing in the general direction of an enemy to conduct a torpedo run- not ideal when your primary target was enemy capital ships. One lucky strike from a main battery could knock a destroyer right out of commission in a heartbeat, the twelve or fourteen-inch guns, designed to smash through the thick steel plate of another capital ship, making mincemeat of the much thinner and lighter protection afforded to a destroyer.
The Punch Drunk, however, had no such grand batteries aboard. It hove into view on the horizon, grey steam puffing frantically from its twin funnels as it tried to outrun the destroyer. Preying on civilian shipping, the tables had now been turned on the commerce raider as it was faced with a far deadlier foe thanks to a coincidence of timing. The Defiant, en route to the Great Eastern Sea and a route up to Harmony Bay, had to pass through the southern straits that separated the pirate archipelago from the mainland. A dangerous place for freighters, it was usually bypassed if at all possible by steamship companies, who preferred not to send any freight around the southern tip of the continent without a military escort, which could not always be provided by the understrength Navy. As luck would have it, the Defiant had caught one of the pirate vessels trying to return to its base. Though it was not their mission, Captain Oakheart was not going to turn down the chance to add a silhouette to the Defiant's for'ard funnel to represent another successful victory. There were three such outlines of other ships upon the funnel already- two pirate junks and a Griffon frigate from the last war. The Griffon Navy was even more pathetically underequipped than their Equestrian foes, and the frigate, caught by surprise after emerging from a fog bank, had been cut to ribbons by the combined gunfire of the Defiant and its two sister ships, the Destiny and the Direct, both of which had already been moved to Harmony Bay to form part of the Northern Fleet.
The reason for the move was that the Admiralty wished to shift additional forces east, both to combat the pirates and also to counter what some strategic analysts saw as the next big potential threat- the Kirin, who had spent the past year making loud protests about the Equestrian occupation of Northwick, a coastal province that, they claimed, was rightfully theirs on account of some centuries-old, half-unprovable claim of early settlement, before the Yaks had even expanded that far east. Princess Celestia had discounted their claims at several diplomatic functions with the Kirin ambassadors, but her advisors were concerned that this claim of ownership, coming out of the blue after the Kirin's long isolation from international affairs, was merely a prelude to something more sinister.
A more immediate concern, both for the Navy as a whole and the Defiant in particular, remained the pirates, however, and Captain Oakheart ordered his crew with customary efficiency. He was one of the old guard, it was true, a believer in firm discipline and hard work, but he got results from the ponies under his command. Never quite good enough to rise to command of a capital ship, in truth Oakheart did not want to, for destroyers were his kind of ship, having served in them right the way from his commissioning as a Midship-Pony nearly thirty years earlier. At his direction, a string of signal pennants were run up the short mast above the bridge. Each flag had a simple meaning, common to all maritime vessels. It was the international language of the sea, capable of being understood by all ships and crews even if they did not share a common tongue. The Defiant's message was short and to the point.
Heave to, cut engines and surrender, or we open fire.
The Punch-Drunk gave a suitably piratical reply, with a single flash from her forecastle as the Defiant closed in. The shell fell a long way short of its target, but it gave Oakheart all the inspiration he needed to issue his next order.
"Port and starboard torpedo batteries, prepare to launch. Ready tubes one and six," came the Captain's voice through the speaking tubes, a pneumatic system linking the bridge to various positions around the vessel. It was intended in these modern times as a backup to the internal telephone system, but Oakheart, like many old hands, preferred to rely for the most part of the old dependable method.
"Tubes to launch positions!" Greenwood shouted. "Prepare tube one for firing!"
The crew, under the direction of Barleycorn, carried out his orders. The triple-tubed launcher was swung out into firing position. Though there was always the prospect of action when passing through the straits, Greenwood had to confess to himself that he had not been quite ready for it, despite Oakheart's daily drills. This was their tenth day out of Baltimare, and once they were through the straits it would take another week at least to reach Harmony Bay, up in the far north. The continent they were sailing around was vast, but they were, at least, a speedy vessel. A fleet with its lumbering, slow battleships would take even longer to arrive, partly from their lower top speed and partly because the mighty capital ships ran on coal, and needed more frequent refuelling to restock their bunkers.
Tube one was prepped, made ready to fire as per Oakheart's command. On the starboard side of the ship, the other battery crew were doing the same job, preparing tube number six, their outermost, to engage also. Torpedoes were expensive, and Oakheart, Greenwood knew, would hope to finish the job by gunfire alone, without having to launch. To prove the junior officer correct, the A and B turrets, out on the raised forecastle of the destroyer, opened up, loud thumps reverberating through Greenwood's chest. The four-inchers hurled their shells toward the pirate, now well inside gun range for the destroyer, though still outside of the effective range of her torpedoes.
Greenwood felt his heart quicken its pace as the guns fired again. From his position he could not yet see the enemy, but he knew that if the torpedoes were to be called into action, he would soon see the Punch-Drunk revealed to him in all its iniquitous glory. The pirate vessel was still trying to run, but it was slower than the destroyer, and the third salvo of shells found their mark. Flame and smoke burst into life on the port quarter of the converted merchantpony, whose own smaller guns were now coming into range. A plume of spray erupted several hundred yards from the port rail of the Defiant.
"With aim like that they could be gun crews for one of our battleships!" Barleycorn commented wryly.
"That'll do..." Greenwood replied, hovering over the firing stud and checking the angle-of-attack indicator. The firing solution would be coming through at any moment, surely- if the pirate's guns were in range now, their torpedoes would be soon.
"Port torpedo battery, standby to fire, angle of attack one-four degrees," came the order he had been expecting. He adjusted the dial accordingly, which fine-tuned the precise aim of the tubes. Ten degrees off from the bow of the Defiant was the minimum angle the torpedoes could be fired at, with the maximum being ninety, if the tubes were cranked around to their full extent. The firing solution being calculated would set them up to lead the target, taking account of its speed and direction, as well as that of the Defiant.
"Standing by to fire," Greenwood replied through the speaking tube, his finger hovering in readiness. The crew stood by, either to prepare another tube or to reload the first, depending on what orders might follow. The bow of the Defiant came about steadily to starboard, and the Punch-Drunk appeared, smoke billowing from the direct hit upon its stern. Its two guns continued to flash uselessly, the pirate gunners obviously not used to a target that could fire back and was more nimble than they were.
"Maybe the old bastard will let us shoot this time!" one of the torpedo crew called, earning a quick rebuke from Greenwood.
"That's enough! Keep watch and maintain your station," he snapped, though the insolent seapony was right. It looked like Oakheart might actually give the order. The torpedo crews on board the Defiant had not fired in anger in the last year; only exercises, practice torpedoes with dummy warheads, plus a few live-fire training runs on derelict hulks and wooden rafts. Given that the primary purpose of the destroyer was to use its torpedoes against enemy ships, it would, Greenwood reflected, be nice to be allowed to fire them properly for a change.
"Port torpdedo battery, fire one. Starboard torpedo battery, standby to fire six."
"Fire!"
Greenwood pressed the firing stud, and the torpedo leapt from its tube, propelled pneumatically into the air before plunging nose-first into the water like a graceful, finless fish. The smooth, metallic cigar had no protuberances other than a few slender flukes at the very rear edge, just in front of the propeller, that helped to drive it through the water and keep it on track. The sub-surface wash and churn of the waters created by its passage would be visible to a sharp-eyed lookout, but the torpedo could move at a surprising speed, and the pirate craft was not exactly nimble.
Nor were they particularly adept at reading military naval tactics. As soon as Greenwood reported that his torpedo was away, the helmspony swung the wheel in the opposite direction, bringing the bow around to port and exposing the pirate to the starboard tubes. The Defiant cut a graceful arc through the ocean as tube six was fired, sending a second torpedo on the way toward the Punch-Drunk. A sweeping turn away from the enemy after a quick nudge of the helm in the other direction would tell an experienced enemy captain that the destroyer had most likely just fired torpedoes from both banks, port and starboard, for the usual practice was to turn away as fast as possible from an enemy after launching so as to avoid return fire and keep the vessel from getting too close to the target. The Punch-Drunk's captain lived up to his ship's name, seemingly paralysed into inaction by the damage they had already taken.
The pirate did not deviate from its course as the two torpedoes raced toward it. Nor did they speed up, slow down, or attempt any evasive manoeuvres. To the chagrin of Greenwood and the port-side crew, they could not see the impacts thanks to the leftward turn of the Defiant, but they heard the blast, a distant, dull thump, accompanied by the cheers of their counterparts on the other side of the superstructure. A second explosion could be heard thirty seconds later and another cry of triumph.
"Sounds like we got her..." Greenwood grinned, only now noticing how much sweat was building up all over his body. "Well done, everypony."
The Punch-Drunk, holed fore and aft by the torpedoes, did not take long to go down. She rolled swiftly to port, lower decks and cargo hold filling with water. The few survivors from her small crew tried leaping into the waters, but she went down so fast she took most of them with her, unable to swim away from the suction created by the ship as she sank into the depths. By the time the Defiant arrived, all that was left was an oil slick and a few pieces of shattered timber and twisted metal floating on the surface. Such was a pirate's lot in life- to drown, to burn, or to hang.
Later that night, after a celebratory tot of rum, Oakheart ordered the silhouette of a converted merchantpony to be painted upon the fore-funnel of the Defiant. Technically that was meant to wait until fleet command had received the report and, if possible, confirmed the sinking through other means, but the pirates were not in the habit of revealing the intimate details of their losses to Equestria. Besides, it would give the crew a fine story to tell when they reached Harmony Bay.
Dear brother,
You were absolutely right. There is not much to see.
We have been on the rails for three weeks now. Who knew it would take so damn long to cross this great land of ours? This is supposed to be the direct route! I know you have much farther to travel but I still imagine you might well arrive before we do. This train is so slow, or should I say these trains. We have had to change four times because the damn things kept breaking down, and then the gauge changes on the border with Yakyakistan. They have their own special coaches and locomotives. Then, for reasons best known to the bureaucrats, there will be yet another change in gauge back to Equestrian Standard when you enter Northwick, even though it used to be Yak territory! I am sure it makes sense to somepony somewhere.
Though it is still only mid-autumn, it is cold up here. I hope you remembered to pack that greatcoat you wore last winter when we trekked to Frigid Falls together with father. I suspect you will need it every day if you are to be part of the Northern Fleet from now on!
I saw a Yak foal at one of the stations. She was with her parents I presume, and she waved and waved as we rattled through. I wonder if it was because she had never seen a train before, or because she had never seen ponies before? Even though this land is part of Equestria now, some of these villages are so remote that I would not be surprised if it were the latter. Since we crossed into Yak territory I have not seen a single Equestrian flag, nor the standards of either the Sun or Moon, flying from any civic building (or what passes for civic buildings out here). It is desolate and vast, an empty parade of plains and hills, and one has to wonder how the Yaks managed to conquer so much of the known world all those centuries ago. It is a good job that Her Highness defeated them, for I do not think I would enjoy living like they do!
I must sign off now as I am running out of paper. I hope to get some more when we arrive so that I may write to Father and Uncle. I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well. I will put my (misguided?) trust in the Army postal system to get it to you, perhaps when you stop for fuel somewhere along the coast. Failing that, I hope to see you in Harmony Bay.
Your loving brother,
Greenshield
The train rumbled along at an agonisingly slow pace. Greenshield tucked the completed letter away in his rucksack, handing the pen back to his company officer, Fine Feather, with a nod of thanks.
"Your brother is in the Navy, isn't he?" Fine Feather questioned. The tall Pegasus mare stood next to him, swaying gently with the motion of the train, her blue coat contrasting with the white of her officers' greatcoat, a common colour for many infantry officers but not ideal for combat except in the snow. The Captain was in command of the 2nd Company, 1st Battalion, 45th Equestrian Infantry Regiment, raised in Baltimare and its surrounding towns, one of several units being moved by train to Northwick to bolster the provincial garrison.
"Yes ma'am. He's a Lieutenant on a destroyer," Greenshield replied. "They're sending him to Harmony Bay, too. I guess the Navy want to reinforce up there as well."
"Think you'll run into him?" Fine Feather asked. "We might be stationed there."
"I hope so, Captain," Greenshield smiled. "He owes me a beer."
Fine Feather chuckled. "Ah, I see. The all important beer...speaking of, I may need you and your boys to requisition some for us at the next halt. The train seems to have run out."
"We'll do our best, ma'am," Greenshield nodded. Alcoholism was common among both the troops and the officers of the Army, but it was even more widespread in the Navy, for one of Equestria's finest industries was booze of all kinds. Beer, ale, cider, whiskey, vodka, rum, gin, wine and a hundred other, regional specialties. As the old saying went, Drunkards to the fleet, dimwits to the infantry. On board ship, rum and vodka were issued to each pony each day in small quantities, a welcome break from the monotony of shipboard rations during long patrols. For the officers, there was an essentially limitless supply to be found in the ship's wardroom, where many of their number whiled away the hours off-duty with a bottle of something or other before staggering back to their bed. On land, soldiers were entitled to beer and vodka, at least when in a fortress, base or garrison. It was more difficult to provide alcohol when on campaign, and less advisable, as drunken soldiers were ineffective soldiers for the most part. But nopony among the high command had ever bothered to stamp out the common problem that had rooted itself like a compulsion among the ranks, commissioned and enlisted alike.
Fine Feather excused herself to check on the other platoons under her command. The train was long, a good fifty carriages, Greenshield had counted at the last stop. Most of them were freight wagons, box cars in which a platoon could ride in a minimum of comfort, with a bucket for a toilet and sitting or lying on the floor as best they could. There were half a dozen passenger cars at the front, just behind the two squat, throbbing diesel locomotives. Greenshield was lucky enough that his company had been shoved into one of them. Though it was a second-class carriage, by comparison with the wagons behind it was sheer luxury, with seats, an actual toilet and windows that could open without the danger of tumbling to one's death from the doors of the box cars. Luckily for the ponies traveling in such squalid conditions, it was cool and dry even in the cramped freight trucks, meaning they only needed to open the doors more than a crack when they reached a halt.
Greenshield looked out of the window. The rough leather of the seat back chafed on his neck, as it must have chafed the necks of hundreds of weary travellers over the years, though, short of a military convoy, he could not imagine why anypony would want to travel on this line. There was nothing out there. The plains and rugged hills gave way on the horizon to distant, featureless mountains. Though there was no snow yet, Greenshield could imagine it coating the landscape like a blanket, as it must surely do every winter. Wind must whistle down from the hills and in from the Great Eastern Sea, however far away that still was from their current location. In summer, the converse must have held true, scorching heat and arid landscapes with little cover. It was no wonder the Yaks had been nomadic for centuries, wandering from place to place in search of water and forage for themselves and their mounts, hardy steppe horses that were distant, though dumb, biological cousins of the ponies that would, in later years, conquer this entire region.
The trek he had spoken of in his letter to his brother had been in the cold, in the snow and in the mountains, but not like this place. That was a rich, alpine environment, down in central Equestria not far from Canterlot, with trees and mountain flowers and hares, rabbits and squirrels bounding happily across the snow-covered meadows and slopes below. This was something else, at least to his mind. This was like being on another world; perhaps it was how Princess Luna had felt upon the moon. The magnificent desolation of this distant land stretched all the way to Harmony Bay and beyond. It was quite remarkable to think this was still part of Equestria. They had been traveling for so long, day after monotonous day aboard the train, just occasional stops to stretch their legs, empty the buckets from the freight cars, and refuel and re-provision the train. Only twice in the three weeks had they slept in actual buildings, once at the large rail sheds at Oak Ridge Junction, and once in requisitioned warehouses near the track at Saltborough. The rest of the time they had rested on board, or had used their own army-issue tents to give them shelter as they waited for a fresh engine crew to arrive or for the line ahead to be cleared of another broken-down train.
Greenshield idly mused to himself, lost in silent thought as the world drifted slowly by. Each town looked the same to him, the houses and the factories, or at least they had when they were still in pony lands. Now they were rumbling through Yakyakistan and things were different. The villages, if they could really be called that, were isolated, connected to true civilization only by the rail line built by Equestrian engineers and local Yak labour. It must have been a terribly lonely existence for the locals, especially the foals, even today with the occasional mail train passing through with news of friends and other clans in neighbouring towns. Sometimes it was hours between each station, sometimes a day or more, and it would take a long time to cross the rough terrain on horseback or on foot. It was only relatively recently that the Yaks had settled into a more sedentary lifestyle with permanent settlements more akin to the Equestrian style- not forced on them by the pony conquerors, but adapted more gradually over time thanks to improvements in agricultural techniques and crop yields allowing them to wring more from the arid soil of their homeland.
Greenshield wiled away the hours, lounging in his seat, interrupted only by occasional talks with one of his soldiers or a trip down to the end of the carriage to take a leak. He wondered where Greenwood was; somewhere on the storm-wracked oceans, out there with just the elements for company. This land was grim, but at least, he reasoned, it was not the sea. Unlike his brother, Greenshield had no sea legs. He had, once, even felt queasy on the local boating lake back home in Hoofbury, the town not far from Baltimare where their father had a small estate and the two colts had grown up. The army had drawn his attention, urged on by his father, but against his wishes, Greenshield had not enrolled in the officer academy, preferring the idea of being a part of the camaraderie of the unit, not the aloof officer corps. His dream had only partly come true, for he had been selected to be a non-commissioned officer due to his good education that put him a cut above the common soldiery. That put him in a position of command, high enough to be still somewhat separated from the spirit and inclusivity that the enlisted ponies shared, yet not earning an officers' salary. In a way, it was the worst of both worlds, and part of the reason he had become so disillusioned with the whole process of serving his country. Being sent to such a distant and desolate frontier did not help, either. He wondered what the morale of the Northwick garrison was like.
No doubt he would find out soon enough. The train rumbled on into the gathering gloom of the evening. Night fell. They rested in their tents beside the track, and in the morning, they set off again. Six thousand miles from home, almost seven thousand from the capital city of Canterlot. This was a far frontier indeed, the last bastion of Equestrian power before the unremitting expanse of the Great Eastern Sea and the strange, mist-shrouded lands that lay beyond, where a half-known race waited, biding their time with steadfast calm, looking for the right moment and place to strike.
The ENS Defiant pulled slowly into the great protected harbour of Harmony Bay. The little destroyer, just three hundred feet in length, was dwarfed by the sheer size of the anchorage that spread out before it as it slipped through the outer reaches, the western headland and the small-but-tall island with no official name, but known by the locals as Fat Colt Island due to its bulbous shape, which lay at the eastern side of the narrows that led into the bay. The waters of the bay were sheltered from the worst ravages of the Great Eastern Sea's fury, which could be relentless at times with winter storms, violent gales and frigid snow squalls, depending on which way the prevailing winds were blowing.
When the Yaks of old reached the coast here, they immediately identified a perfect place for a fishing village, and despite their nomadic lifestyle at the time, one had been established by an enterprising clan who reasoned that they could both sustain themselves and also trade fish to other hungry tribes who migrated to the area as they passed through on their lonely, endless pilgrimages. The village had grown into a small town, and when Equestria had arrived upon the scene, the all conquering Army of the Sun had made the same determination as the Yaks, but with a more warlike purpose. Harmony Bay had quickly become a naval base, home to the galleons of the early Royal Equestrian Navy, which were gradually superseded by the ships-of-the-line, great three-masted square-riggers with dozens of cannons apiece, controlling the eastern sea lanes and helping to spread the word of the Princess, the golden Sun-crest of Celestia upon their sails. Upon Princess Luna's return, that had been replaced by the national flag, half-sun, half-moon, with two stylised depictions of the Princesses entwined around the central symbol. A pirate, Zebrican, Griffon or Kirin would know immediately who was chasing them down as soon as the sails crested the horizon.
That was in the past. The ships-of-the-line were no more, consigned to a couple of sail training roles in major ports. It was steel and steam that ruled the day now, the great armoured prows and rifled naval artillery guns driven through the water by powerful, throbbing turbines spun by the product of the combustion either of coal or oil. Rich seams of both existed, dotted all across Equestria, and their discovery had launched a great industrial surge some hundred and fifty years earlier, the pace of which had continued relentlessly ever since, barely slowing down and even speeding up in times of conflict, for war, as they said, was the locomotive of change.
The roadstead in front of the inner harbour was home to the ships of the Northern Fleet, the naval command responsible for the protection of the eastern and northern sea lanes, the defence of the Equestrian coastline, and anti-piracy patrols up and down the eastern side of the continent. Some vessels were out on patrol or berthed at other ports, but the bulk of the fleet was in port at Harmony Bay, chosen as the headquarters for the Northern Fleet because the harbour remained ice-free all year round. Four battleships, the brutally beautiful kings of the sea, lay anchored in mid-channel, along with two battlecruisers, their faster, slightly less well armed counterparts, and half a dozen cruisers, the backbone of any fleet, swift and lethal. In the port itself, tied up to the piers and wharves, were ten destroyers and a small assortment of ancillary vessels- patrol boats, motor torpedo boats, yard patrol craft and supply ships. Two fleet oilers provided supply for the turbines of the smaller ships, while three colliers moored at the northern end of the port would accompany the fleet on any major journey to supply coal for the boilers of the capital ships.
The Defiant passed through the open water near the anchored battleships. Her crew lined the railings, Greenwood taking his place beside the port torpedo tubes, saluting as they passed the flagship of the Northern Fleet, the Celestial Spirit. Admiral Strongbow, the well-respected commanding officer, flew his flag in the mighty warship, though he spent most of his time ashore dealing with naval matters. There was no great need for him to be aboard ship when in port; after all, it was not like the fleet was expected to go anywhere or do anything any time soon. With the exception of the occasional pirate skirmish, like the one Defiant would be reporting on, the eastern reaches were mostly calm and quiet these days.
The Defiant moved into the inner harbour where a small launch came out to them with a pilot who would guide them to an appropriate berth at one of the piers. Harmony Bay itself, the port city, was bustling by the standards of Northwick or Yakyakistan, but still had a population of no more than two hundred thousand, even with all of the military personnel taken into account. It was nestled into the landscape, like a foal among its blankets, in the shadow of half a dozen hills that surrounded it.The peninsula upon which the city lay extended both to the northwest and southeast, with Harmony Bay being almost exactly halfway along it, just thirty miles from the edge of the world, where the far tip of the peninsula dropped away vertiginously into the Great Eastern Sea.
Smoke rose from a dozen spots across the city, curling up from chimneys before being carried inland by the stiff sea breeze. Seagulls chirped and cawed, swooping and swirling overhead before diving in for any dropped crust of bread or handful of grain they could find. The tar-papered and tiled rooftops looked like those of any other coastal city, as did the rows of brick warehouses and workshops that lined most of the quayside. Farther inland lay the residential areas, wooden houses of various bright colours an attempt by the local citizens to break the monotony of the grey waters, grey skies, and dull greenish-brown landscape. In winter, there was not much grass, nor any vegetation to write home about.
Beyond the compact city lay the forts, arrayed like a string of pearls around the neck of a slender mare. They protected the city from land attack, their heavy artillery, mortars, and concrete machine-gun bunkers designed to repel any assault. The high command did not want a repeat of the Moray Peninsula farrago, where a major Equestrian naval base on Mare-Isle had been captured from the landward side by a large rebel force because its defensive guns had all been pointing out to sea with nothing but a thin line of infantry and barbed wire protecting it from the other side.
That did not mean that the port was undefended from the sea, however. As well as the guns of the fleet, a large coastal artillery emplacement dominated the skyline of Fat Colt Island. Across the mouth of the channel from it, a lighthouse on the headland guided ships in safely toward the opening and the harbour beyond. Harmony Bay was well protected from storms, and from assault, but the city and its port occupied a key strategic position, for the Northern Fleet could operate with impunity anywhere in the Great Eastern Sea, and in the northern arctic channels, and continue to dominate the region.
Pulling up alongside the quay and cutting her engines, the Defiant joined the ranks of the Northern Fleet, part of the gradual shifting of resources eastward, approved by the Princess and military high command, not because of any immediate danger, but out of an abundance of caution. There were rumours- though rumours only they were- that something bad was soon to happen.
They did not, however, remain rumours for much longer.
"Your Highness! Welcome, welcome, what a pleasure it is as always to see you, for you bless me with your presence."
Obsequious to a fault and as arrogant as ever, Prince Blueblood- or, to give him his current and more accurate title, Grand Admiral Prince Blueblood, bowed flamboyantly before kissing the hand of the Princess. Celestia regarded her distant relative with her usual mix of appreciation and mild disdain.
"Thank you, Admiral. I fear we cannot stay to chat for too long, however, for the theatre, and my sister, are both waiting."
"But of course, Your Highness," Blueblood nodded. He was due to attend the airing of a new play with Celestia, as well as Princess Luna and a number of other top officials and nobles. The Princess was clad in her regal, flowing, angelic white robes, fastened with gold, her ethereal mane flowing to the gentle pressures of some invisible breeze. Blueblood, by contrast, wore his dress uniform. Black shoes and trousers, a pristine white jacket resplendent with medals- most of which were unearned and entirely self-appointed- and a sash of gold and midnight blue, the colours of the Equestrian flag and of the Princesses he served. Great braided gold epaulettes decorated his shoulders, burnished brass buttons fastening his jacket and the flap of his leather holster. He wore his revolver on one hip and his sword in its scabbard on the other, looking every inch the great leader of ponies that he was most decidedly not.
Nevertheless, he was the commanding officer of the Home Fleet, so-called because it protected the approaches to the city of Manehattan, the largest in Equestria, and the capital, Canterlot, which lay some distance inland but near enough to the coast to be theoretically at risk from an amphibious invasion force. It was also known as the Western Fleet due to its geographical disposition. It was the oldest and traditionally the most prestigious of the four fleets- Home, Equatorial, Northern and Overseas- that the navy operated. Blueblood, like many nobles, had undergone officer training and served his time as a junior officer aboard various vessels, and had risen through the ranks quite legitimately- albeit at a rather accelerated rate compared to many of his contemporaries, on account of his heritage. Eventually Blueblood had been made an Admiral, not the first and probably not the last Prince, Duke or Viscount to be so appointed, commanding the Home Fleet from his flagship, the heavy battleship Chevaline.
"How did your meeting go with the Kirin ambassadors, Your Highness?" Blueblood asked his sovereign. Celestia had been meeting with the two diplomats earlier that day to address their claims of territorial hegemony.
"Unproductive, I am afraid," Celestia replied. "The ambassadors were courteous to a fault, but insisted that their Empress was quite unmovable on the topic. They repeatedly informed me that the Kirin Empire recognised only one true owner of Northwick and Yakyakistan."
"Ah...themselves, I take it?" Blueblood questioned.
"No, oddly enough," Celestia shook her head. "They insisted that those territories belong to the Yaks and should be governed by Yaks, not by ponies."
"With their guiding hand upon the tiller of power, no doubt," Blueblood scoffed. "A transparent and pointless power play, Your Highness. Those foreign devils have no claim to Equestrian sovereign territory."
"They say otherwise, Admiral," Celestia responded. "Ancestral claims to the land...ancient rites and settlers long since lost to history...all quite unprovable, of course."
"How do they claim to square that with the fact that they want the Yaks to rule themselves?" Blueblood asked, confused.
"They spin it as magnanimity," Celestia explained. "The benevolent Kirin will ride to the rescue of the oppressed peoples of the continent to free them from Equestrian aggression. The same spiel used many times throughout history, including by the Yaks themselves hundreds of years ago, interestingly. Though they claim the land for their own, they will be gracious enough to grant it in perpetuity to the Yaks, so long as the Yaks, presumably, rise up and help them take it from us."
"Just as the Mare-Islanders believed..." Blueblood mused. "An interesting tactic. Do you think the Kirin were behind that uprising?"
"It is possible. Unfortunately we know little enough about them to be certain," the Princess answered. "Our intelligence gathering capability is woefully underequipped. Outside of our embassy in Kirinton, we have little else to go on. I have suggested to our diplomatic staff that we bolster that capability to learn more about them, but I fear their sudden emergence from their own isolation has left us short-handed in such matters. After all, they only permitted us to build and staff and embassy in their capital two years ago."
"Alas, that is regrettable, but I am sure our intelligence services will come up trumps for their Princess," Blueblood replied.
"I hope so. While I am here, however, perhaps you will fill me in on the preparedness of the Home Fleet?" Celestia requested. Blueblood's office, as commander of the Home Fleet, was inside Canterlot Palace itself, though he divided his time between Manehattan and the capital. He had offices in both cities, and in both offices, he had a bottle of whiskey tucked away in his desk. Blueblood opened the drawer and produced it, along with two glasses.
"Of course, Your Highness. A drink, perhaps?" he smiled at her.
"Thank you, no," Celestia replied. "There will be drinks enough for us both at the theatre. I gather that you have been dealing with a few pirate attacks along the western coast?"
"Ah, yes, those buccaneering scum," Blueblood nodded. "Not merely in the west, Your Highness. The pirates have been quite active along our southern coast as well. One of our destroyers sank a commerce raider down there, I believe. As for my own fleet, we have intercepted several smuggling vessels just this past week..."
"Indeed. But the pirate corvette that sank two freighters...that got away, did it not?" Celestia pointed out, drawing a blustering response from the Admiral.
"Your Highness, alas, we were unable to track the vessel successfully due to a number of factors...the devils are tricksy and well-versed in evading our searches."
"Perhaps. But when the pirate vessel fled south, its course, speed and position was not transmitted by radio to the Equatorial Fleet for almost three hours," Celestia replied. "By the time they were able to assemble a search force, the pirate had vanished entirely and presumably made it back safely to its base in the archipelago. Why, pray tell, did it take so very long for your ships to send the alert?"
"Your Highness...as you know, our radios have a limited range," Blueblood replied, quite truthfully. "My vessels first had to radio fleet headquarters. Only then could the message be relayed by telegraph..."
"Then perhaps it was your headquarters staff who performed inadequately in this task?" Celestia raised an eyebrow.
"Ah...I...do not know the answer to that question, Your Highness. I apologise..I shall of course investigate thoroughly and...iron out any discrepancies in the performance of my headquarters staff and my crews if necessary," Blueblood informed the Princess.
"I hope so, Admiral. I do not want such laxity among the crews of my ships," Celestia retorted, leaving Blueblood huffing and frowning as she turned on her heel. "Come, our car is here."
"But of course..." Blueblood poured himself a stiff glass of whiskey and drank it down in one, burning shot before following the Princess from his office. The palace hallways were busy with staffers and servants as always, but out front in the palace courtyard, the calm and quiet of a pleasant late autumnal evening was broken only by the rumbling of an idling engine. Celestia's driver had brought a car around for them, and that was a novelty. Only royals and rich industrialists or stars of stage and screen could afford a private vehicle. A couple of years ago it had replaced the royal coach for most official engagements that the Princess had to attend.
The driver bowed and opened the door for the Princess. She climbed in elegantly, adjusting her robes as she took a seat in the rear. Blueblood climbed in beside her with a nod at the driver. It was relatively unusual for Celestia to travel with a passenger other than her own sister, but Luna was traveling to the theatre from elsewhere, and Blueblood, though a military pony by trade, was still a noble by birth.
The driver climbed in and set off, the gates of the palace yard being opened for them, the sleek, maroon four-wheeler with its long nose and thick leather roof heading out onto the streets of Canterlot, accompanied by a pair of Royal Guard motorcycles to the front and another pair to the rear. At each junction, police officers blew their whistles furiously and held up their white-gloved hands to stop the flow of horse-drawn carts and wagons and the ubiquitous pony-pulled taxis and rickshaws. With the Royal Guard escort there was no mistaking who was passing by, and pedestrians gawped and pointed, some waving and some removing their hats as a sign of respect for their Princess. Celestia and, to a lesser extent, her sister, were beloved by the populace, hailed as the true founders of Equestria, as well as its saviours on several occasions. Yet despite that, there were those who distrusted or even outright hated the royal sisters. Seperatists, rebels, those who believed Equestrian hegemony over lands not their own was an illegal occupation, the various racial champions who believed in Zebrican, Yak or Griffon dominance.
There was always an easy scapegoat to be found, a patsy upon whom a greater power could try to pin the blame.
As the car and its escorts rounded the corner onto the street where the Shire Theatre was located, a cheer rose from the small crowd assembled in front of the building. Princess Luna had already arrived with the Minister of the Interior to attend the show, and the citizens were eager to see the Sun Princess arrive as well.
The car approached and the driver slowed to come to a halt in front of the theatre, but as he did so, a pony stepped forward from the crowd. He was wearing a heavy coat, not unreasonable as it was a cool evening and the gathering clouds to the south, visible before the sun had set , brought the prospect of rain later. Yet it was not his attire that drew the attention, but the brown paper package he carried, producing it from his coat and holding it out in front of him, almost as though he were presenting a ritual offering to the Princess. Several flashes, splintering glass, then screams.
The crowd scattered in all directions, some into the road where they were struck by the outriders on their motorcycles. From among the rapidly dispersing ponies stepped another, a mare this time, with another package, produced from a large canvas bag. She hurled it in the direction of the car.
Panic ensued. The Royal Guard riders gunned her down, blood splattering the cobbles as she staggered and fell. The stallion tried to climb up on the running boards of the car, but the driver accelerated away and two brave civilians tackled him, knocking the package, and the gun it concealed, from his hand. Police rushed toward the scene, whistles blowing. Then the bomb exploded.
The package the mare had thrown landed a mere foot or so away from the car, and it detonated with a brilliant flash. More screams filled the air as a cloud of dust billowed into existence. Shattered cobblestones and shards of metal from the car sliced through the flesh of a dozen ponies, including the stallion terrorist and his heroic captors who were pinning him down. The car toppled onto its side, one wheel wrenched loose and spinning crazily away, striking at least one pedestrian on its wild journey until it smashed through an already broken shopfront window and came to rest.
The Royal Guard outriders and police rushed to the overturned vehicle, fearing the worst. Yet their fears were misplaced. Tearing open the damaged door, they found a dazed but unharmed Prince and a stoically angry Princess. At the first sign of trouble, Celestia had flung a tough magic shield around the vehicle, protecting the occupants. Except for some jarring and minor bruising from the overturn, both the driver and his passengers were unhurt.
"Your Highness! Are you injured?" one police officer cried.
"It is not I that has been harmed, but the nation," Celestia replied with a grimace. "Tend to the wounded and the dead, and then find out who was responsible for this outrage."
The port of Harmony Bay, it seemed, was not exactly replete with delights. Lieutenant Greenwood had done some exploring since the Defiant arrived, and saw little worth writing home about. It was a drab, dreary city, perennially overcast, the sea winds driving heavy clouds and frequent showers of rain over the town as it huddled beneath the hills and the more distant mountains, as though it were trying to keep warm. It was damp almost everywhere, even farther inland in the more respectable civilian districts, where the gaily painted houses did their best to give a spot of light and colour. Everywhere else he had been, though, the greyness was unremitting.
There was, it seemed, but one brothel, where the officers and seaponies of the Northern Fleet intermingled, sharing the same bar, the same threadbare chairs, and the same threadbare whores. Not everything was bad news, however; the port, its bars and its brothel all had a copious supply of alcohol, especially beer and vodka, but also, curiously, champagne and oddly fine vintages of wine. Evidently some previous commandant was a great believer in keeping his ponies well watered while they awaited action, for there were great quantities of drink tucked away in some of the storehouses, according to a couple of local dockhands he had spoken with.
The current commander of the city garrison was General Wild Willow, a chubby, genial mare whose persistently reddened nose suggested she enjoyed more than her fair share of that great liquid bounty. Like many Generals, the black unicorn was from royal stock, though any similarities with either of the Princesses seemed to end there. She was far from elegant in manner, but seemed to keep morale among the garrison high- though whether that was merely through judicious use of the alcohol stockpile or because she was an able commander, Greenwood did not yet know. Truth be told he knew little of the General at all, for beyond a brief welcome speech to the crew of the Defiant, she and Admiral Strongbow had been absent, evidently working, or perhaps drinking, the days away in their offices in the main joint headquarters building.
Morale was higher among the naval contingent, for Admiral Strongbow was a proven leader, a capable tactician and an honest, fair and just officer, who, much like Captain Oakheart, demanded much from his ponies but made sure they knew exactly why; it made them into better sailors, and better sailors were more likely to live through a battle. Strongbow looked like a classic aristocrat, as indeed he was, with his handlebar moustache and sideburns and a hefty row of medals bedecking his chest, but unlike certain other Admirals, he had earned every one of them through fire and fury, in the Mare-Isle campaign as an Admiral and in several dozen other engagements at lower ranks over the years, fighting the Zebras, Griffons and the ubiquitous pirates.
The provincial governor of Northwick, Cranberry Cream, had her house and office in the city, and she seemed, from what Greenwood had been able to establish over a few drinks with some locals, to have achieved the paragon of politics- she was hated by everybody. The Yaks disliked her rigid enforcement of Equestrian law in preference to their own local codes, the pony civilians disliked her officiousness and bureaucratic bull that she managed to insert not just into business but also into daily life, and the officers of the army and navy hated the way she nosed her way into military matters on which she was little-qualified to comment, let alone have any actual input. As governor, however, she was technically in control of the defence of Northwick. A sensible governor would defer to their military commanders in such matters, but Cranberry Cream was evidently one of that all-too common brand of politician who thought they knew better than their advisers, even in areas that they knew nothing about. One thing she did know about was wine; the absolute best specimens of the various vintages available were reserved for the governor and her guests.
Not only was the alcohol in good supply, but also food. Fish was brought in every day by the local Yak trawlers, no longer for sale to passing clans but mostly for distribution to the Equestrian garrison. Good stockpiles of grain, wheat and other essentials were always maintained, both for provisioning the fleet before a sailing and to keep the garrison and the civilian population fed in case of war or natural disaster that might cut the supply lines to the city, either by sea or by the rail line that led, eventually, to impossibly distant Baltimare. A road ran parallel with the track for some distance before peeling away through the hills to the town of Yakden, the next closest settlement to the west.
Despite the food, alcohol and availability of ponies of ill repute, there was not much else to do but find your own entertainment for the most part. Ponies played dice, poker and blackjack, organised bare-knuckle boxing tournaments- mostly Army vs. Navy for bragging rights, but sometimes between ships or regiments too- and even performed their own plays and variety shows, at least in good weather, on the town's showground stage near the entrance to the docks. Greenwood had been doing a lot of reading, as he always did. Never without a good book at his side, what little spare space he had in his cabin aboard ship was filled with tomes from the family library. It was, he thought, the best way to spend time by oneself that did not involve any amount of undressing first.
The port was abuzz with activity, even though nothing actually seemed to be happening. It was quite paradoxical; ponies and local Yaks employed as labourers were busy lugging crates and boxes, resupplying the newly arrived Defiant and its two sister ships, the Destiny and the Direct, which had both arrived several days after Captain Oakheart's ship. Two more destroyers from the Northern fleet had returned from a patrol with nothing to report, and tomorrow, after a week in the harbour, the Defiant would sail again on one of the routine missions that would at least break the monotony of Harmony Bay which was already beginning to set in. Greenwood was not looking forward to an entire tour of duty out here in the back end of Equestria, far from home and the parts of the nation that he actually knew.
Northwick was a strange place, a curious mix of pony and Yak, yet somehow managing to take the worst parts of both worlds and combining them into one. The land was as desolate as any you could find outside of the harsh, burning deserts of Mare-Isle and Saddle Arabia, but the locals were hardy and stoic in the extreme, a product of necessity given the primitive conditions they lived in. The interesting parts of Yak culture, however- their unique dwellings, the intricate beadwork and tapestries with which they decorated their tent-huts, their handsome traditional clothing- had all been perverted or removed entirely by the culture of Equestria, at least when it came to the inhabitants of Harmony Bay. The Yaks living and working there wore outfits that would not have looked out of place in any smaller town in Equestria- Vanhoover, Ponyville, Clopham Junction. They lived in clapbboard houses like all the other residents. The only thing they seemed to have retained of their traditional values was the peculiar Yak intonation and way of speaking. At the same time, the old Equestrian vices of gambling and especially drinking had sunk their tendrils into the local Yaks, who seemed happy to succumb to the same iniquities as the garrison.
All told it was not a particularly exciting, invigorating or welcoming place to be, and Greenwood's mind had not taken long to wander to the possibility of a transfer somewhere else. He did, at least, enjoy cooler weather, having no love for the heat after his tour in the desert as an infantry officer. That ruled out the Overseas Fleet, at least, for that was based beyond continental Equestria, with its home port in Mare-Isle, somewhere he had no desire to ever return to. The Equatorial Fleet had been the Defiant's previous appointment, but though Baltimare was relatively temperate and cooled by the sea breezes, the remit of the Equatorial Fleet covered the entirety of the tropics to the west and south of the main continent, as well as the pirate archipelago that stretched for hundreds of miles through the tepid southern waters before one reached the vast and empty expanse of the Southern Ocean.
That left the Home Fleet, then, but that was not exactly a dream posting either. Everypony knew morale there was poor at the best of times. The Home Fleet had always been the largest and most prestigious, but it had gone to seed over the recent, fallow years when there had been little call for it to see any action. The appointment of an inadequate Admiral did not help matters either. Everypony knew Blueblood was an aristocratic appointment and nothing more, though he had at least risen through the ranks in the appropriate way and knew how to handle his oars, so to speak. He was far from inspirational, however, not a figure to inspire ponies to greatness- mediocrity, perhaps, but certainly not greatness. He was known to be quick to anger and to dispense that anger upon any unfortunates who he might deem responsible for whatever calamity had befallen his ship or his fleet, and that in turn meant resentment among the ranks. No, the Home Fleet was no great proposition either. Harmony Bay it would have to be, then, at least for now, with hoped-for leave to return home at some point, though how much leave would be granted he did not know. It would take all of the usual home-leave allocation of two weeks away from one's ship to even get back to a part of Equestria he recognised.
Harmony Bay it would be, for who knew how long. Worst of all, there was no sign of his brother. The station-master had told him that the 45th Regiment's train had not arrived and was still not due for another three days. Lamenting the deplorable state of Yak rail infrastructure, Greenwood read several chapters of his current vintage book, The Requiem of Commander Hurricane, before turning in for the night. They would be out on patrol in the morning, and hopefully Greenshield would be in town by the time they returned to port.
Dear Father,
I hope this letter finds you well. It is easy to imagine it not reaching you at all, such is the remoteness of this place. IT is strange to think that we are still in Equestria, for it feels like another world. I fear the approach of winter will begin to make things seem even more desolate soon enough. It is to be admired that a species like the Yaks could make a good life out here for themselves before the coming of industry and modern comforts. Can you imagine? No central heating, no indoor plumbing, no motor transport of any kind, no economy to speak of, even. Just subsistence, and not even from farming, for the land is too barren. It may sound as though a nomad's life would suit somepony of military experience, forever being shuffled around from one place to another by bureaucrats or nobles admiring a battle map or force disposition chart. But this land is not for me.
The port here is a little more lively than the countryside around it, at least. The Yaks are very industrious. We have them doing most of the manual work here because they are physically stronger than most ponies. They don't complain so long as they are paid well and have plenty of vodka to drink. Northwick is probably of more interest to a geologist or ethno-botanist than to a sailor, but it is certainly unique, I will give it that.
We received news of the assassination attempt with horror. Even the Yaks seemed shocked when they were picking up the morning newspapers (odd since they do not seem to worship the Princess, or even fly our flags). Thank heavens Her Highness was unharmed. I hope they find the masterminds behind the dastardly plot and put them to death in a suitably painful manner, for there can be no other fate that is fit for a traitor.
My dear brother has not yet arrived as of this writing. The Yak railways seem to be even less efficient than ours, by all accounts. The station master said his train was not due for several days. I am sure he (and I) will write to you again once he arrives here in Harmony Bay. I look forward to seeing him and learning of his journey.
We had a surprise during our voyage. You may have read about it somewhere deep within the Baltimare Chronicle (do you still take it? I hope so, it is an excellent newspaper). I cannot go into too much detail until the official report is released, of course, but it blooded our crew quite well, I think. The Captain congratulated us on a job well done. I think he was quietly impressed with our efficiency. I hope we can keep it up.
I hope it will not be too long until we can meet again and speak of things in person. Until that day,
Your Son Greenwood
"If you're not reading, you're writing, huh?"
Greenwood looked round from the tiny desk he shared with his cabin-mate, who had just walked in. Tracer, a fellow Junior Lieutenant and a dark orange Pegasus, slumped tiredly upon his bed without bothering to remove his shoes. It took extra energy, and he might need them if an alarm sounded during the night.
"Just a letter to my dad," Greenwood explained, folding the paper and tucking it into an envelope, ready to be posted once they returned to Harmony Bay. The Defiant had been out on patrol for twelve hours, slipping their moorings at a little after ten that morning. It was now dark, nothing being visible out of the porthole in their cabin. A single, unshielded bulb provided light for the two of them, illuminating their cramped cabin, little more than two bunks, two footlockers, and the small desk where Greenwood sat. It was their home whenever they were on board; not much, but a little oasis of calm, away from the rest of the crew, given at least a modicum of privacy thanks to their status as junior officers. They had their own Lieutenants' washroom, shared with the few others of the same rank on board, down the deck from their cabin, where they could make use of the toilets, or heads in nautical terminology, and showers, and access to the officers' wardroom where they would eat and drink with the rest of the commissioned ponies aboard, including the Captain, when he deigned to join his subordinates.
The Defiant had a crew of one hundred and fifty ponies, consisting of twelve officers and one hundred and thirty-eight seaponies. The compliment of officers included Captain Oakheart, two Lieutenants, four Junior Lieutenants, and five Midship-Ponies. Most of the rest of the crew worked below decks, in the engine room, infirmary, stores and equipment rooms, or in the magazines for the four turreted guns, preparing, stacking and loading shells onto the hoists that took them up to the crews in the turrets who actually fired the weapon.
Others worked as spotters, the Pegasi who flew above in good weather, or as deck hands. Some operated the torpedo tubes and depth charge racks, while the last few crewponies were to be found on the bridge, the pilot house, or the signal room, working as messengers, runners, radio operators and general assistants to the officers who actually controlled the ship from its bridge, atop the superstructure and in front of the funnels.
The Defiant was, in many ways, a typical vessel of the Royal Equestrian Navy, with a mostly pony crew but a few Zebras and even a couple of Yaks among them, coming from the annexed territories to fight under their new flag. In another way, however, the destroyer was quite atypical, for morale aboard was good. In many ships, indeed entire fleets, that was not exactly the case, thanks to a combination of harsh discipline, poor living standards, incompetent officership and a general undercurrent of radicalism and growing discontent that was common not just in the Navy, but all across Equestria. There had always been rumblings of rebellion and calls for a change at the top, but most treasonous outbreaks had been crushed ruthlessly over the years by the military. The Mare-Isle breakaway, however, seemed to have been different, sparking something more than just the usual low-level protests and illicit anti-royalist meetings. Such concerns, however, did not seem to have spread to the Defiant yet.
"I can't wait to get back to Harmony Bay," Tracer sighed.
"Why, for Celestia's sake? There's nothing there," Greenwood chuckled.
"It's better than being out here though, isn't it? Routine patrols...I hate them!" Tracer sat back up and looked over at Greenwood. "Routine means dull."
"But dull means you might actually live through it and see port again," Greenwood pointed out.
"I suppose. But still. Ah, I don't know. I guess I'm just rambling," Tracer sighed. "Mind you, the landscape is so fucking empty we might as well be at sea even when we're on land. What kind of a place...it's crazy."
"I hear the terrain livens up a little as you move farther up the peninsula," Greenwood answered, removing his jacket and trousers and climbing into his bunk.
"I'll believe that if I see it," Tracer snorted, lying back down again and roughly pulling the blankets over him. "We've been here what, a week? And I can't wait to see a tree again, a waterfall, anything."
"There were trees in Harmony Bay," Greenwood answered, turning out the light with the flick of a switch. "Not many, I'll grant you, but there's that little park, near the headquarters building?"
"That park is as empty as the rest of the town," Tracer replied. "Imagine your life being so empty that you actually want to sit in that park, that park with dead trees and scraggly grass and broken benches. It must be the last place ponies sit before they jump in front of the train."
"Now there's a morbid thought," Greenwood settled down under the thin blankets. They had not yet been issued their winter gear, which included thicker bedclothes, but the temperatures were dropping fast, out at sea especially. It would not be long before snow started falling and the chill really set in.
Greenwood drifted off into a dreamless sleep. No happy visit back to his home tonight, just the restful slumber of one tired out from a day's activities. The night after was the same.
The night after that, he had the midnight watch on the bridge, under Lieutenant Fennel, a tough no-nonsense mare who took pride in modelling herself on Captain Oakheart, though without the moustache. It was pitch black outside; no moon illuminated the tossing sea, a stiff breeze whipping up a fair amount of spray over the prow of the destroyer as it nosed through the gloom.
The bridge was well-lit, at least, the first watch, from eight in the evening til midnight, keeping an eye over things. They were due to rendezvous with the Destiny in a few hours, passing by each other like literal ships in the night as they swapped patrol sectors, and Fennel had ordered searchlights on the wings of the bridge to be switched on. They were scanning the eastern horizon, the direction from which the Destiny was due to come on its patrol path in case the other destroyer was ahead of schedule. The destroyers were looking for pirates in the main, but also any potential threat to the harbour at Harmony Bay. It was unlikely they would find any pirate ships this far north, however, as there was very little trade for them to intercept that wouldn't be easier to intercept farther south. This really was the back end of the world, even for the criminals of the sea.
Greenwood was stationed on the bridge as officer of the watch, a responsibility often handed to a junior officer when nothing much was happening or expected to happen, for the officer of the watch was in charge of navigation and controlling the vessel in the absence of the commanding officer or executive officer. Since a rendezvous was expected with the Destiny, however, Lieutenant Fennel had taken over from him, with orders to wake the Captain once the Destiny had made contact.
It was a lonely task, being in command, and it was an even lonelier task being in command at night, with only a helmspony and a couple of lookouts for company. Greenwood, however, had been enjoying the job. He was responsible for the ship, an important precursor to any promotion to a higher rank and the possibility for a command of his own in the future. All Captains and Admirals had to serve in such a role earlier in their careers, and even if it was just an empty stretch of the night with nothing to report, it was still his ship for a few hours.
"Ma'am!" A signalpony hurried into the bridge. "Radio contact with the Destiny! They are reporting unknown surface contacts and are requesting a message relay urgently."
"Unknown contacts?" Fennel grunted. "Very good...Mister Greenwood, sound action stations if you please."
"Yes ma'am." Greenwood moved to the internal alarming system and cranked the handle, picking up the handset and speaking into it as the alarm klaxon began to ring throughout the ship. "Action stations, action stations, all hands to action stations. Up and for'ard on the starboard side, down and aft on the port side. Action stations, action stations."
"Ma'am, the Destiny should still be at least eighty miles to our east," the helmspony reported. "Should I change course?"
"Hold course for now," Fennel ordered. "We'll see what the Captain says." Oakheart was on deck within thirty seconds of the klaxon sounding, his cabin being just below the bridge.
"Report, Lieutenant," he demanded, his uniform appearing to be immaculate despite being roused from sleep and either having to pull it on in a hurry or having slept in it.
"Radio room reports contact with the Destiny, sir. They are reporting unknown contacts and have asked for a message relay. I deemed it prudent to bring the ship to action stations in case their contact report turns out to be accurate."
"Very good," Oakheart nodded, taking up his customary position. "Route the Destiny's broadacast to the bridge if you please, signalpony."
"Aye sir." The pony hurried away to the radio room to the rear to do as ordered, and a few moments later the bridge radio crackled.
"ENS Defiant, ENS Defiant, this is ENS Destiny. Day code Apple Castle One Six Niner, already confirmed with your radio room. Do you read, over?"
Oakheart picked up the radio handset near his captain's chair. "ENS Destiny, this is the ENS Defiant, Captain Oakheart speaking. Go ahead."
"Sir, we have a large number of unknown contacts to our east. Grid reference is One Three Six Niner Niner Zero. They are not answering our hails and we cannot identify them. We have attempted to contact Harmony Bay for orders, but something seems to be jamming our long-range radio signals. Can you provide a message relay, over?"
"Understood, Destiny. Will attempt message relay. Standby." Oakheart turned to Greenwood. "Mister Greenwood, inform the radio room to attempt to contact Harmony Bay directly." He scribbled down the pertinent information from the Destiny's call with a wax pencil onto a piece of paper and handed it to the Junior Lieutenant.
"Aye sir." Greenwood took the paper back to the radio room, leaving the bridge and passing astern along a short covered walkway. The radio room was a compact, cluttered, confusing mess, containing a trio of ponies slaving away over the communications equipment. There was a stench of overheated electrical wires in the air, an almost omnipresent smell in the small compartment. A stack of radios, the internal telephone switchboard, and the slightly older-fashioned telegraphy gear completed the setup for the two mares and one stallion to keep the ship in contact with the world- as long as they remained close enough to whatever they wished to contact. The telegraph and the radio both had short operational range, and could be so strongly affected by atmospheric conditions as to render them essentially useless.
Greenwood issued the order, and the radiomare tried her best to contact Harmony Bay. They were ninety nautical miles closer to the port than the Destiny, giving them a better chance of getting a message through, but she could not establish contact. Nothing but static, no reply. The airwaves were clear, and despite the overcast there was no meteorological reason why that should be the case- no electrical storms, no heavy weather in the vicinity. Yet there was no reply from Harmony Bay, which either meant that their message was not getting through, or that the port could not reply.
Greenwood returned to the bridge. "Captain, radio room reports unable to establish contact with Harmony Bay."
"Very well..." Oakheart grunted, now seated in his chair. He picked up the radio handset again. "Destiny, this is Defiant. Unable to establish contact with Harmony Bay, over."
"Understood, Defiant. Captain Wormwood advises we are going to close with the contacts to attempt a visual identification, over," came the reply.
"Defiant copies. We will standby for your report, over." Oakheart replaced the handset. "Helm, maintain present course, ahead one third, reduce speed."
"Maintain course, ahead one third, reduce speed, aye," the helmspony replied, moving the handle of the engine room telegraph beside his station, which in turn rang a bell down in the engine room and moved a corresponding device to indicate to the engine crews what speed was being requested by the bridge. One third ahead meant the Captain wanted one third of the ship's normal top speed, which equated to ten knots. He did not want the Defiant to be moving too fast in any given direction in case it was required to proceed either toward the Destiny or back toward Harmony Bay. The rendezvous with their fellow destroyer was clearly off the table at least temporarily while she investigated the unknown vessels.
The Defiant and her crew waited. They were at action stations, just in case, but there was silence over the airwaves for a few minutes. Oakheart lit his pipe and puffed away as he sat brooding in his captain's chair. Greenwood stood at his station at the side of the bridge. At the signal of action stations, the searchlights on the bridge wings had been switched off, just in case, as they could attract the attention of a foe as well as a friend. As a result, there was even less to see beyond the windows than there had been before.
"Defiant, this is Destiny! " came the suddenly panicked voice of the radio operator aboard the other vessel. "Hostile contact, I say again, hostile contact! We are under attack!"
"Destiny, this is Defiant. We copy. Can you identify the enemy, over?" Oakheart demanded. There was a burst of static and then the radio operator's voice again, this time backed by the urgent blaring of the fire alarm signal over the Destiny's internal circuit.
"It's the Kirin!"
"Destiny, say again. Did you say Kirin?" Oakheart questioned, exchanging a glance with Lieutenant Fennel.
"Affirmative, Defiant! We have visual confirmation, they are flying the Kirin battle flags and they match the vessel identification profiles we have. If you cannot establish radio contact, Captain Wormwood requests you return to Harmony Bay immediately and alert the fleet!"
"Understood, Destiny. Inform Captain Wormwood we will return to Harmony Bay. How many contacts do you have, over?" Oakheart asked.
"We have counted six battleships, possibly four battlecruisers, at least nine cruisers...it's an entire warfleet," replied the radiopony. "I don't know how many other ships..." A thud could be heard in the background, followed by a loud roar a few moments later. "Defiant, Defiant, are you still receiving me?!" he cried.
"Affirmative, Destiny. We hear you," Oakheart assured him, a little, calm voice in the sudden chaos that was his world now, trapped in his claustrophobic radio room with hell all around. The dull sounds of battle could be heard over the radio.
"Get out of here, Defiant. Run! You have to alert the fleet before it's too late. They're not out here for a fucking exercise, and there's only one possible target!" Another bang made the signal crackle. "Ah, hell...my leg..." the radiopony groaned. "Get back to the fleet...we're done for, I think. Came too close...in range of their heavy guns, but we had to...to identify them...they were ignoring our signals...yeah, we're done..." The broadcast suddenly cut out completely.
"Helm!" Oakheart called. "Steer heading three-one-zero. All ahead full. Get us back to Harmony Bay. Mister Greenwood? Sound battle stations."
Canterlot had been a subdued city in the few days since the attempt on Celestia's life. Though the loyalists were overjoyed by its failure, the fact remained that subversive elements had managed to strike at the Princess in the heart of Equestria, in the capital, no less. That was an affront to the centuries-old rule of the Sun, to the very essence of the monarchy itself. Canterlot was the seat of power; it should be inviolable. Somepony had been able to attack the Princess in her own city, something which had not happened since the days of Nightmare Moon.
The street and the theatre had been sealed off by the Royal Guard and the Canterlot Police, who had conducted an intensive joint investigation. The dead bomber had been obliterated by her own device, but the body of the stallion with the gun had been recovered mostly intact, though riddled with shrapnel. His identity had been established; Sideswipe, a thirty year old from the eastern city of Trottingham. He had no previous history of criminality, or of membership of any prohibited group, or of any subversive activity. At first glance there seemed to be no obvious reason for his actions.
When the fragments of the bomb were analysed, however, it revealed something interesting.
"So in conclusion, Your Highness, we know the identity of the gunpony, but we have been unable to establish the identity of the bomber," Chief Inspector Nimbus Swirl, the tall, thunderhead-grey Pegasus in command of the Canterlot Police, addressed his Princess in her study, accompanied by Admiral Prince Blueblood, who had been on the receiving end of the blast also. There had been some speculation among the investigators that he might have been the intended target, not Celestia, but the dead gunpony had no links to the Navy that might have inspired his attempt.
Also at the side of the Inspector was Phoenix Crest, the commander of the Directorate of Military Intelligence, and not a stallion that Celestia had been expecting to see, taking her a little by surprise when the dull-orange unicorn had walked in together with Nimbus Swirl.
"But you found some possible evidence, yes?" Celestia asked, seated behind her desk, wearing a smart, businesslike suit instead of her traditional robes.
"We did, Your Highness," Nimbus nodded. "General?"
"Thank you, Inspector," Phoenix Crest took a step forward. "The Canterlot Police and Royal Guard asked for military assistance in the investigation, and the local garrison sent an explosives team to examine the remains of the bomb. They found a unique signature, one that is not common to any Equestrian-manufactured explosive device in military or commercial use."
"Unique to who, General?" Celestia questioned. "Where did these would-be assassins find their bomb?"
"The Kirin, Your Highness," Phoenix answered, a reply that drew the immediate attention of Blueblood as well as Celestia.
"The Kirin?" Blueblood exclaimed. "The Kirin gave a bomb to an assassin?"
"We do not know that for certain, Admiral," Phoenix replied. "Merely that the assassins acquired a bomb that had a uniquely Kirin construction. The bomb made use of ammonium permanganate, an explosive compound that, as I said, is not used by any Equestrian military or civil explosives manufacturer. However the Kirin have made extensive use of the compound in their domestic mining operations. We deem it extremely unlikely that the bomb came from any other source."
"The Kirin...those backward recluses couldn't organise a drinking session in a brewery. How can they be responsible for this outrage?" Blueblood asked, demanding answers from the General.
"The dead stallion, Sideswipe, was a resident of Trottingham," Phoenix continued, ignoring Blueblood's outburst. "We found a hotel room key on his body and searched the room. There was no mention of his partner in crime, but we did find his personal effects. He took a train from Trottingham to Canterlot ten days ago. Two weeks ago, a Kirin clipper called at Trottingham. Via telegraph we got in contact with the local police and had them investigate the port there. The harbourmaster showed them the shipping records. That Kirin ship was carrying a mixed cargo, but included among the manifest registered with the harbourmaster was a listing for two crates of miscellaneous mining supplies."
"So the Kirin shipped the explosives to Trottingham among other mining equipment?" Celestia asked, and Phoenix nodded in confirmation.
"That is how it appears, Your Highness, though we cannot confirm absolutely. However, what we do know is that Sideswipe worked at the port in Trottingham as a supervisor. Two days after that Kirin ship came in, he tendered his resignation to the harbourmaster. Two days after that, he traveled to Canterlot by train."
"It could be a coincidence, of course," Celestia pointed out. "Perhaps this Sideswipe merely saw an opportunity, and stole the explosives from the shipment."
"Perhaps, Your Highness. But we could not find any links between Sideswipe and any Equestrian extremist group, nor any anti-monarchist group, nor any separatist faction," Phoenix explained. "However, we were able to delve into his background. He used to work as a first mate aboard an Equestrian freighter out of Trottingham. Four years ago, his ship was sunk in a storm. He was rescued by a Kirin freighter the next day, along with two other crewponies who were adrift with him in a lifeboat. The Kirin ship was returning to its home port, but on its next journey it brought the two other crewponies home to Trottingham. Sideswipe, however, remained in the Kirin Empire for a little over three years before returning home."
"So he had the opportunity to be brainwashed by their propaganda..." Blueblood mused.
"Indeed, Admiral. That appears to be a distinct possibility, though again, with Sideswipe dead, we cannot definitively confirm that," Phoenix answered. "At the time of his rescue, the Kirin were still in their own form of self-imposed isolation. The only exception to that was their occasional trading vessel that would sail to Equestria, Zebrica or elsewhere. It was extremely fortuitous that the Kirin came across the survivors, given that they only had a few such ships operating until the last year. it is possible, though this is entirely speculative, that Sideswipe might have formulated a mindset that the Kirin were his saviours, and not Your Highness, your Navy or any other Equestrian, and that may have been a turning point, allowing the Kirin to influence him with their own ideology."
"What could they possibly say to make a loyal servant of the Sun and Moon turn their back on Equestria?" Blueblood scoffed. "The idea is absurd, patently nonsense, General, surely."
"Alas, we shall never know what they did to him," Phoenix responded. "As I said, this is only speculation. But it is the most likely explanation we have. It ties in with what we know of his movements, the shipment of equipment...'
"Then we shall work with that as the assumption. Thank you General, Inspector. You may leave us," Celestia informed them. "Keep me abreast of any new developments and continue your investigation. I want definite answers on this if at all possible, before I take any other action. It would not be wise to accuse the Kirin of something in which they are not complicit."
Phoenix Crest and Nimbus Swirl bowed before turning smartly on their heels and departing. Blueblood looked at the Princess.
"Do you believe them, Your Highness?" he asked her. "The Kirin...an outlandish suggestion, surely?"
"Not so outlandish as you may think, Admiral," Celestia replied. "The evidence is strong but it is not incontrovertible. Given that the dead stallion had no evident links with any other groups or organisations, it is quite possible that he was indeed working on behalf of the Kirin."
"But you met with their ambassadors just hours before the bombing," Blueblood pointed out. "Would they conduct so craven an act while maintaining civil diplomatic discourse with you?"
"Perhaps. It gives them a shield of anonymity, plausible deniability of the actions of these terrorists." Celestia stood and approached the large, mullioned windows of her study, looking out over the palace courtyard, drenched with rain from a fast-moving squall as the late evening wore on into night. It was almost ten in Canterlot, approaching three in the following morning in the eastern provinces. "Or we may have it completely wrong and they may be an entirely innocent third party. I suppose we shall just have to wait and see what other evidence comes to light."
"ENS Defiant calling Harmony Bay transmitter, Defiant calling Harmony Bay tranmistter, do you copy, over?"
"ENS Defiant calling Northern Fleet command, Defiant calling Northern Fleet command, do you copy, over?"
Greenwood stood in the radio room as the deck gently rose and fell beneath his feet. This was, what, the twentieth time that the radiomare had tried? And the twentieth time she had failed.
"Still no response on either channel, sir," she informed him, lifting one headphone from her ear. "I just can't get through. I don't know if something is jamming us or jamming them, but I'm not getting any interference. I can't understand it."
"Alright. Keep trying. Send a runner to the bridge as soon as you hear anything," Greenwood informed the mare, who seemed as infuriated with herself as with her equipment, even though they knew that the Destiny had also been having the same problems contacting the port. Greenwood returned to the bridge and clicked his heels. "Still no contact, Captain," he informed Oakheart, who was still puffing way on his pipe, like an old grandfather in his rocking chair in some peasant village hovel.
"Very good Mister Greenwood. Remain on the bridge, we are approaching the port. It shall not be long until we arrive."
"Aye Captain," Greenwood replied, taking his station. The lights had been dimmed; they were no longer at action stations, but battle stations, ever since the Destiny had reported coming under fire. There had been no more contact with the ill-fated destroyer since, and it seemed that they had been sunk, the first casualties of whatever it was that the Kirin fleet was planning.
The Defiant continued on through the night's gloom toward Harmony Bay, lookouts keeping a close eye out astern, for it was to the east that the danger reported by her sister ship lay. The Kirin fleet was an unknown number of miles behind them, the battleships and cruisers sighted and detailed by the Destiny heading, presumably, for the port. The Defiant was faster than any capital ship, but the last reported position of the hostile ships did not give them very long to report the intrusion and for the Northern Fleet to react. The Destiny had been ninety miles to their east, some three hundred miles from Harmony Bay. At a speed of approximately twenty knots, it would take them around twelve hours to reach the headquarters of the Northern Fleet. The Defiant pushed on at thirty-five knots, taking a little under six hours to make the journey home. That left but a few scant hours before the enemy could be expected to arrive, assuming they did not stop anywhere on the way, or deviate to some other unknown target.
As they approached the peninsula, the time was nearing three in the morning, yet every pony aboard was wide awake, adrenaline running through their systems. This could not be a mere surprise drill. Anypony who had overheard the radio call from the Destiny could confirm that. You could fake the sounds of battle, but you could not fake the emotions, the fear and the panic, in somepony's voice. Not like that.
The brilliant beam from the lighthouse on the headland outside of the harbour appeared on the horizon, guiding them home, and the helmspony adjusted course by just a little. Their navigation had been excellent, bringing them right back to where they had started without any issue. As soon as they came into visual range of the coastal fort on Fat Colt Island, Oakheart ordered the signal lamps to work, flashing out the message repeatedly.
Alert HQ. Hostile Kirin force to east. Attack imminent.
Again, they got no reply.
Oakheart ordered them to continue into the harbour, hoping to alert the fleet directly with the same signal lamps while cursing the incompetent gunners in the fort for sleeping on the job. Though it was a dark night with a little sea fog rising up, they should still have been able to see the signal and respond to it.
"Sir! Vessel close to port!" the lookout cried from the port bridge wing.
"Helm, two points to starboard," Oakheart ordered, the helmspony swinging the wheel accordingly, bringing the bow around to avoid a collision. "Course?"
"Into the harbour, sir," the lookout replied. "They're on the same course as us."
"Vessel to starboard!" the other lookout cried a moment later.
"What?" Oakheart frowned, taking a look for himself this time out of the bridge windows. The mist was coming up and visibility was poor, but there should not have been any other ships coming or going from the harbour. Destiny, so far as he knew, had been the only other ship out of port that would be expected to return in the next twenty four hours, and that was now no longer a possibility.
"Two vessels to port now, sir!" the first lookout cried again.
"Signal them!" Oakheart growled. "Identify those vessels. Mister Greenwood?"
"Aye sir." Greenwood hurried out onto the port bridge wing, where the lookout, wrapped up in a leather waterproof coat, was peering through the mist. Greenwood brought his binoculars up to his eyes. The mist was getting thicker, but he could indeed make out the silhouettes of two ships running in alongside them, on the same course and a very similar speed. Their shape was similar also- a pair of fast freighters, perhaps? No, not quite...and were those gun turrets...?
As the quartet of ships proceeded into the harbour, each perhaps half a mile from the next, a clear patch in the mist gave much better visibility to the lookouts. Greenwood rapidly scanned the nearest vessel. It was a destroyer, alright, but not one of theirs. Not an Equestrian ship.
"Sir! Those ships are hostile!" he cried, rushing back onto the bridge. "Kirin destroyers, Captain!"
"Are you certain?" Oakheart snapped.
"Yes sir. They're definitely not ours," Greenwood replied quickly.
"Very good, Mister Greenwood, port torpedo stations if you please!" Oakheart barked. Signal the fleet if possible. Miss Fennel, all guns are to prepare to fire. Mister Yellowstone, starboard torpedo stations, Mister Greenwood, port torpedo stations. Run out the launchers, all tubes to fire on my mark."
Greenwood rushed out of the bridge and down the ladder to the deck where the torpedo crew under Barleycorn were waiting, lounging about their launcher, having loaded its triple tubes hours ago ready for action.
"New arrivals for the fleet, sir?" one of the crew asked, with a nod toward the ships running parallel with them through the water.
"They're hostile," Greenwood replied tersely, drawing looks of alarm from the crew who had not heard the radio call and had only heard Oakheart's shipwide broadcast that they were returning to port to alert the fleet of a possible attack. The prospect of actual combat tonight, it seemed, had not really entered their minds. "Run out the launcher, get a bead on that closest vessel and standby with all tubes," Greenwood ordered, and the crew scurried to comply, swinging the heavy launcher out on its cradle and into firing position at almost maximum extension, aimed just ahead of the enemy ship.
Above them, the signal lamps on the bridge wings flashed out desperate warnings to the fleet in the inner harbour. The Kirin lookouts, however, seemed to be as dozy as the fortress gunners had been, for they did not notice that the Defiant, which had slipped into the midst of their attack run, was not one of theirs. Each ship was keeping station with the one to its port or starboard and the intruder, evidently, was going unnoticed, at least for now.
The destroyer to their port ran out its own torpedo tubes, and Greenwood got a glimpse of the enemy for the first time. Half a dozen Kirin crew were gathered around their twin-tube launcher. Their uniforms were a similar mix of white and dark blue to the Equestrian naval standard, and but for their peculiarities, the Kirin could have passed for a pony. Most of their torpedo crew wore the curious headpiece common to most Kirin tribes, a kind of forked or branched horn constructed of wood that rested atop their head, or in this case, rising up the outside of the front of their steel helmets. Most also had the long, verdant manes of the Kirin, thick hair draped around the shoulders or falling to the lower back, though trimmed shorter than civilians would possess due to military regulations. There were both males and females among their numbers, though thanks to the long hair shared by both, it was hard to tell them apart. Other than that, and a few foibles with rank insignia and uniform design, the Kirin sailor looked very similar indeed to their pony counterpart.
That was why it took a few moments for anyone aboard the Kirin destroyer to notice there was anything amiss. Whether it was the physical differences of the Equestrian crew, their uniforms, or a sharp eye spotting that the ship beside them had three torpedo tubes, not two, one of the Kirin gave a shout of alarm. The cry was taken up by others, along with frantic gesturing at the Defiant as they finally recognised the sheep in the manger.
"Port and starboard tubes, fire at will!" Oakheart's voice came loud and clear over the ship's speakers, and Greenwood slammed his hand down on the firing stud. All three tubes ejected their torpedoes with a loud hiss of escaping air. The three silver fish jumped into the water and began to speed toward the Kirin destroyer. There were more shouts of alarm on board, and at the last second, the ship tried to turn, but it was much too late. All of the torpedoes struck home, two in the bow and one amidships, and tore the destroyer apart. A great flash of flame lit the harbour and reflected from the fog bank as the ship's forward magazine exploded.
A dozen things began to happen at once. Two of the starboard torpedoes struck home in the Kirin ship on the other side of the Defiant, but while the Equestrian vessel was engaging the targets closest to it, the other four Kirin vessels, only one of which could actually be seen by the Defiant's crew thanks to the fog, began their firing manoeuvres, loosing torpedoes from both port and starboard launchers before turning away sharply and heading away from the inner harbour. At Oakheart's command, the Defiant's two forward guns began to engage the second ship to their left, the only remaining target they could see. Distant fountains of water showed where their gunfire had missed its mark, but the guns fired quickly, fed by the hoists from the magazines below, hurling a shell toward the enemy every eight seconds.
As the Defiant fired, sixteen torpedoes were streaking across the smooth water of the bay toward the capital ships of the Northern Fleet. In times of war, the harbour would have been strongly defended, the guns of the fort fully manned at all times, the lighthouse switched off to avoid aiding enemy navigation, patrol ships outside the entrance and in the outer harbour, the harbour entrance closed by a heavy boom and torpedo nets mounted around every anchored vessel. But there was no war. Equestria was at peace, and so was Harmony Bay, at least until the first Kirin destroyer exploded.
In the city, many of the senior officers of the garrison and the fleet had been attending a dinner and ball being held by the provincial governor, Cranberry Cream. The dull thud from the outer bay lightly rattled the windows of her villa as the party was starting to disperse in the early hours of the morning. As a few bedraggled survivors of the evening stumbled out into the street, keen ears heard the blast, and turned their eyes out to the harbour, shrouded in a light layer of fog. A slight orange glow way out in the outer roadstead- perhaps the sun was coming up, but surely not, it was the middle of the night. Most of the guests continued to stagger along and paid it no further mind as they continued their drunken progress home, but those accustomed to war began to feel unease. Carriages were summoned and the few motor-taxis in town were hailed by drunken, though eager, officers who wanted to speed up their return to port.
In the roadstead lay the capital ships of the Northern Fleet, sitting at anchor in the dark. The ships were silent, with just a duty watch on deck and many of their officers ashore at the party. It had been a quiet, calm night. Many seaponies had played a few rounds of cards, gathered around an accordion-player or fiddler for a singalong in the mess, or written letters, those who could write, to their families or lovers back home, before turning in for the night at lights out. The accommodation decks were dark and still, hammocks swaying gently, almost imperceptibly, with the movement of the vessels upon the slight swell. An occasional cough, groan or grunt and a chorus of snores were the only sounds common to every ship at night. Rest was vital at sea, for a tired pony could easily make a mistake that cost themselves their life, or worse, put the entire ship at risk, but even in port, sailors loved to snatch as much sleep as they could.
On deck, the lookouts kept a weary eye open. The monotonous landscape of the bay was, at least, obscured by the darkness, but that was even more tedious to look at. The lights of the city were visible, less than a mile away, and if one listened closely, the distant strains of music from the party could be heard over the creaks and groans of the ships at anchor. Resentful junior officers left in command of the great battleships and heavy cruisers whiled away the empty hours by demanding constant reports from the lookouts or haranguing seaponies over some tiny fault in their work. It was the same across the whole Navy; when there was nothing else to do, restless ponies turned upon each other with arguments and mis-channeled anger.
Nopony was looking for the telltale bubble trail that marked an incoming torpedo. There was no war, no foe to fear. Harmony Bay was a protected anchorage, fleet headquarters, somewhere safe. Even if they had been looking, it would have been difficult to spot the white streaks on the water. It was dark and the fog was rising. The explosion of the Kirin destroyer woke many crewponies and drew the attention of every sailor and officer on watch, but by then it was too late.
The first torpedo struck the battleship Indomitable just abaft the beam, heaving a great column of water skyward and sending dozens of crewponies tumbling from their hammocks and bunks. Other than the detonation of the Kirin destroyer's magazine mere seconds earlier, there had been no warning that anything was amiss. Alarmed ponies flicked on flashlights, torches and lanterns; the lights, which had been out to aid sleep anyway, had been knocked offline by damage to the electrical circuits. Cries and gasps of shock replaced the snores from moments ago as the crew staggered about in confusion.
The second torpedo struck the battlecruiser Moonrise just behind the heavily armoured prow, tearing a hole in the side of the ship big enough to drive a train through. Water raced in in great torrents, filling breached compartments in seconds and drowning dozens of those lucky enough to survive around the blast site but unlucky enough to be trapped below deck. The forward magazine for the ship's ten-inch guns was flooded, a lucky break when the third torpedo to be fired struck the Moonrise and destroyed part of the hydraulic piping system, igniting a wash of hydraulic fluid that spurted from broken pipes and would have seen the ship torn apart had the flames reached the ammunition.
The cruiser Triumphant was not so lucky. Its aft magazine was penetrated by another torpedo, and the entire bay was lit up like day as it exploded, ripping the rear third of the ship to pieces and killing three hundred ponies in a heartbeat. Flaming debris rained down across the roadstead, twisted shrapnel from the funeral pyre of their comrades wounding a number of other sailors who were on deck aboard other ships as they rushed about to take up battle stations.
A whooping siren sounded from the bridge of the flagship, the Celestial Spirit. Admiral Strongbow was ashore, one of the guest of honour at the party, despite his general dislike of glad-handing and schmoozing, but his flag-captain White Star was alert and on duty, the earth mare quickly directing the crew of the flagship to their posts, running out the torpedo nets and preparing the ship's boats to pick up survivors. In Strongbow's absence, the fleet was commanded by Vice-Admiral Noonglow, a capable unicorn officer and a good tactician, but caught by surprise at anchor in the bay, there was nothing he could do save damage control. It would take time to warm up the boilers and make steam, and the enemy destroyers were already turning away, having done their damage. Within minutes they would be out of gun range, slinking away into the darkness from whence they came.
More torpedoes raced in toward the now-alerted ships, buzzing with activity as searchlights flashed and stabbed through the fog, searching for more danger. Two other cruisers were struck and lightly damaged, and despite the rapid reaction of its captain and crew, the torpedo nets were not deployed around the Celestial Spirit fast enough, and the veteran battleship was struck once on its prow, though it did little more than superficial damage to the mighty craft, its armour holding firm against the explosive onslaught. One wayward torpedo missed the massed ranks of heavy warships and drove straight for the docks, striking a surprise blow against the stern of one of the destroyers tied up there, blasting the propellers to pieces and wrecking the propshafts that linked them to the engines.
Now the city itself was alive, lights coming on in hundreds of houses as ponies and Yaks were awakened by the commotion out in the bay. Many turned out into the streets and pointed with aghast expressions at the fires. A boiler explosion? Sabotage? What else could it be, they asked, debating amongst themselves, pony and Yak neighbours turfed out of bed by the explosions. Equestria was not at war. It had to be an accident, or perhaps separatist terrorists, like the ones who had tried to kill the Princess.
In the outer bay, the Kirin destroyers turned about, their work for the night completed. The Defiant blazed away with its guns, sewing confusion among the enemy. Those who had not noticed the Equestrian ship's presence believed that their comrades had struck mines; they did not know there was a foreign presence in their midst. The target of her forward guns managed to evade the shots, turning sharply to port after firing its torpedoes and disappearing into the fog. Captain Oakheart ordered the aft guns and lookouts to standby, while continuing deeper into the harbour. It was tempting to chase the enemy, especially as they didn't seem to be aware of the Defiant's presence, but their mission was to alert the fleet; not to the unexpected torpedo attack, but to the incoming Kirin battlefleet, which would pose an entirely different problem.
The Defiant entered mid-bay and was met by a dozen searchlights from a number of capital ships, including the flagship, and loud, insistent hails demanding to know their identity. The two twin twelve-inch forward turrets on board the Celestial Spirit began to traverse toward them, surprisingly sprightly for guns of such size, the largest mounted on any Equestrian warship.
Oakheart ordered the signal lamps to flash their name and the day's passcode, while flags were run up with the same message, as well as an additional Equestrian naval ensign, to show their identity. There was confusion among the fleet, and itchy trigger fingers could well inflict more damage upon an already shaken force if care was not taken. The Defiant, identity established, pulled alongside the Celestial Spirit. The prow was buckled and dented, with a gash along the side, but the ship was still in fine fighting shape. Nearby, the broken wreck of the Triumphant blazed, smoke rising high into the night as boats, tugs and motor launches swirled around to pick up survivors. Once the fact that there had been some calamity was realised, the fleet and the civilian crews in the harbour had been quick to respond, sending any boat that could round up enough of a crew to operate to try and help.
The torpedo attack had lasted less than two minutes from launch to completion, leaving behind two dead Kirin destroyers, but striking a powerful blow upon the Northern Fleet. One battleship was heavily damaged, one battlecruiser crippled. A cruiser was gone, resting gently on the bottom of the bay as it burned, and several other vessels damaged. Not a crippling blow, but a powerful one. How much difference the Defiant had made by knocking out two of the Kirin destroyers could only be speculated at, but it had prevented eight more torpedoes being fired, and they might have turned a serious strike into a catastrophic one.
Captain Oakheart ordered the Defiant's boats to join the search for victims of the Moonrise and Triumphant, ordering the destroyer to come to a halt alongside the flagship on its undamaged starboard side. Hails to its crew revealed that Admiral Strongbow was not aboard, but while Oakheart was debating with Flag-Captain White Star whether or not to recall one of their boats and take it ashore to find the Admiral, a lookout reported that Strongbow's launch, flying the Admiral's pennant, was returning from shore, where he had been enjoying the hospitality of the governor.
Strongbow came aboard his flagship and headed straight to the bridge, ordering his personal ensign to be raised and flown from the ship's masthead to ensure that the rest of the fleet knew he was back on board and thus back in command. He then strode out onto the starboard wing of his bridge, looking down at Oakheart in the much lower-profile destroyer, and demanding a full report.
Junior Lieutenant Greenwood had remained at torpedo stations until ordered to lead one of the boat search parties, taking to the water in one of the ship's pinnaces, half a dozen strong ponies rowing them through the water while others looked for survivors. The Triumphant had gone down fast by the stern, her prow sticking out of the water like the jaws of some ancient sea monster. Oil coated the water around the wreck, calming the slight waves that lapped against her. Many ponies had already been carried to safety or taken to the fleet's hospital ship, the Salvation, moored at the far end of the port, or to the city's medical facilities. Others were trapped in half-flooded compartments or twisted metal within the hull; it would take hours or even days to free them.
While Oakheart and Strongbow conversed, Greenwood searched, torch in hand, swinging the beam across the darkened waters in case anypony was floating unconscious or wounded, unable to cry out. A dozen other launches and cutters were doing the same grim work. It was a sorrowful scene, the fleet caught at anchor, taken entirely by surprise, with the Defiant almost, almost making it back to port in time to warn them. It was not the attack they had been expecting, but if they could have just shaved ten or fifteen minutes from their arrival time...
But they had not. They had done their best and arrived with hours to spare before the Kirin battlefleet approached, but not soon enough for the pre-emptive strike. The silent black lumps floating listlessly around the wreck of the Triumphant were mute testimony to that. Some were burned, their uniforms charred away, unrecognisable even as ponies. Others were drowned, their water-filled lungs preventing them from even crying out for their mothers or their Princess as they died.
Greenwood had seen death before, on land, though mostly of the enemy, separatists from Mare-Isle. Equestrian casualties in that campaign had been light, for the rebels were not a true military force. They had little heavy support, almost no artillery and minimal training. This was something entirely different. This was industrial death. These ponies had been killed by mechanisation, by the trundling wheels of a real war, and once those wheels were in motion it was very difficult to stop them crushing countless others beneath their bulk. The thought made him sick to his stomach. This war was less than an hour old, and it did not take some great intellect or intuition to know that worse was coming. Much, much worse.
"Your Highness! Your Highness!"
An urgent knocking, hammering at the door of her bedchamber, awoke Celestia in the depths of the night. Her room was dark, the heavy velvet curtains blocking out most of the dim light from outside. It was still raining; she could hear the patter of drops upon the great windows.
Her horn glowed and illuminated the clock gently ticking beside her bed. Almost two-thirty in the morning, an uncivilised hour better suited to her sister than to the Sun Princess. She sat up slowly in her bed.
"Enter."
A harried-looking servant burst in through the thick oak-wood doors, light from the hallway outside streaming in. "A thousand pardons for waking you, Your Highness, but I have grave news..."
"What is it, my loyal servant?" Celestia questioned, clutching the blankets to her bare chest.
"The Northern Fleet, Your Highness, at Harmony Bay...they have been attacked," the servant replied, only then remembering that he was supposed to bow when entering the room. Celestia waved away his delayed formalities.
"Attacked? By whom?" she demanded.
"The Kirin, Your Highness," came the simple reply.
Celestia rose immediately from her bed, dispensing with the blankets and any attempt at modesty, revealing her full-bodied form to her servant, naked and drawing his gawping gaze as she grasped at her dressing gown, a muted pink robe which she fastened about herself. "Is the military council assembling?" she asked.
"I, uh..." The servant paused momentarily, distracted by her unclad beauty. "Yes, Your Highness. Admiral Prince Blueblood bade me summon you immediately."
"Very good," she nodded. "You may go. I shall be with them momentarily."
"Yes, Your Highness..." The servant bowed again and backed out, closing the double doors behind her. Celestia turned on the lights in her chamber using her magic and swiftly dressed, not bothering to summon her handmaidens to assist as she often did. Once she was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, she proceeded to the throne room where the military council had assembled. The Minister of Defence, Copperhead; General Snow Meadow, representing the Army; and Admiral-Prince Blueblood, representing the Navy as commander of the Home Fleet.
"Tell me what we know," Celestia ordered as she strode in.
"Yes, Your Highness. At a little before 3am Eastern Equestrian Time, approximately five and a half hours ago, the base of the Northern Fleet was raided by Kirin destroyers. Torpedoes were fired...one cruiser was destroyed, one battleship and one battlecruiser heavily damaged," Copperhead explained.
"Casualties?" the Princess asked.
"Casualties are currently estimated at five hundred and twenty dead, four hundred and fifty wounded and ten missing, Your Highness," Blueblood replied. "All sailors and officers, no civilian casualties reported. I am pleased to report that one of our destroyers accounted for two of the enemy vessels in retaliation."
"Indeed, Admiral," Copperhead nodded. The wizened brown Pegasus was a long-standing member of the royal government, installed years ago as Defence Minister. "One of our patrol destroyers was returning to port to pass an alert to the fleet."
"They knew of the attack?" Celestia asked.
"Not exactly, Your Highness..." Copperhead paused. "The ENS Defiant was one of our two patrol destroyers in that sector. Apparently they received a report from their sister ship of an unidentified fleet. When the Destiny, their sister, moved to identify the unknown vessels they were fired upon, but managed to report that they were Kirin in origin. This fleet, however, is not the same as the flotilla that attacked Harmony Bay."
"It appears that the destroyer attack was a pre-emptive strike, Your Highness," Blueblood added. "What the Defiant reported was that an entire Kirin battle fleet was en route to the port."
"Why did this news take so long to reach my ears?" the Princess demanded.
"Both the Destiny, the Defiant and the Harmony Bay transmitting station reported radio interference from an unknown source, Your Highness," Snow Meadow, the Army Chief of Staff, spoke up. The milk-white earth pony was the only mare on the military advisory council, an experienced, seasoned campaigner and the leader of the operation to retake Mare-Isle, promoted after that success to Chief of Staff. "The signals staff are working to try and uncover the reason behind this, but suffice it to say that it interfered with the efforts to communicate via radio. It also seemed to be affecting the radio-telegraphs aboard the ships, but Harmony Bay was able to send us the information along the land telegraph line that runs parallel to the Trans-Yakistan Railway. That was why there was such a delay, Your Highness. The message had to be relayed numerous times along the route across Yakistan and then across the rest of Equestria to Canterlot."
"And this fleet that has been identified. It is heading for Harmony Bay as well?" Celestia asked, evidently satisfied with the explanation as to the delay.
"Yes, Your Highness. Its last recorded position put it some three hundred miles east of the port," Blueblood informed her. "At a reasonable speed of twenty knots, that put them about twelve hours away from Harmony Bay. It is possible they could be travelling faster or slower than that, however, but we cannot see any other logical target for them, especially since we know they have already attacked the port and the fleet. Their interest clearly lies in Northwick, Your Highness, and there is nothing else of value in that area for them to be going after, only a couple of small civilian merchant ports and a number of tiny coastal villages."
"Are we certain?" Celestia questioned, glancing between each of her advisors. "Are we absolutely certain it is the Kirin responsible for this?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Copperhead nodded sagely. "Visual confirmation was obtained by the Destiny before her presumed sinking, relayed by the Defiant, and the destroyers sunk at Harmony Bay are Kirin in design, flew Kirin flags, and we have recovered the bodies of dead Kirin crew."
"Very well. Thank you, Minister," Celestia turned on her heel. "Summon the Kirin ambassadors. Now."
The morning had dawned over Harmony Bay with smoke still rising gently from the wreckage of the night's attack. Feverish work had been going on to try and rescue the survivors trapped inside the Triupmhant, with cutting torches and magic being put to use to extricate those stuck inside, entombed in the hull. Divers had been down as soon as the sun rose, and the last of those trapped had finally been removed to the safety of the hospital. Even those unhurt by the sinking had to be checked out for exposure and possible hypothermia; the sunken ship was unheated and full of frigid subarctic water.
As the rescue teams worked, the rest of the fleet were frantically preparing for war. Though there had been no official reply yet from Canterlot as to the course of action they should take, Admiral Strongbow had taken it upon himself to ready the fleet, while General Wild Willow did the same for the garrison of Harmony Bay. Governor Cranberry Cream was less keen, despite the obvious damage done to the fleet and the danger of another attack. She was reluctant to take any steps without approval from the Princess, and that would take time- time that, if the Defiant's report was accurate, they did not have to waste on dithering.
First order of business had been to get the crews back on board the ships. Not all of them had been aboard. Many had been on day leave in the city, spending time at the bars or the brothel, or even hiking into the surrounding hills for exercise and to enjoy what passed for a panorama. Messengers had been sent around to try and find any ponies who did not report for duty after hearing the brief battle unfold. There had been several desertions, ponies fleeing now that it looked like they might actually have to go to war, having signed on for three square meals a day and bits in their bank accounts, not for actual combat. They were listed officially as missing, but if the hand of bureaucracy and military justice caught up with them, they would find themselves in a prison cell if they were lucky, and at the end of a short rope if they were not.
Admiral Strongbow had ordered a conference of all ship captains aboard his flagship, even as repairs were underway on it to patch up the gash in the bow. The blast from the torpedo had not cut right through its armour, but it had done damage to it, and a weak spot when going into battle was not something that any officer wanted. Repair teams were busy welding on extra plates of metal as a temporary patch job until the ship could be fully repaired in the future.
Strongbow's conference informed all of the fleet's captains of his orders. The Kirin fleet was coming, and they had not, as of yet, received any instructions from Canterlot. While they expected a message from the Princess and military high command at any time, if it did not arrive they would have to act upon their own initiative, a concept quite alien to many mid-level officers and commanders.
Admiral Strongbow was not one of those officers, however, and he had the intent to try and take the fight to the Kirin. The capital ships of the fleet, those that could, were prepared for battle, their boilers fired up and steam being raised to get them moving at the Admiral's command. One cruiser and two destroyers were sent out to form a patrol to warn of the approach of the enemy, at which moment the fleet would sally forth to intercept the Kirin under the protection of the shore batteries on Fat Colt Island and the headland near the lighthouse.
If the Kirin wanted a fight, they would get one. Strongbow was determined on that point, but governor Cranberry Cream refused point-blank to give any help to the fleet. Much to Strongbow's consternation, the governor insisted that word from Canterlot must arrive before anything be done beyond the most basic preparations. It was the way of things, she argued. The bureaucracy was there for a reason, and the Princess was the ultimate arbiter of all their actions. She and her sister were in command, ultimately, of all the Equestrian armed forces, and it was not down to any individual officer to take actions that might lead to war.
Strongbow, supported by General Wild Willow, had vehemently disagreed with the governor's assessment of the situation. This was already a war, they argued. The Kirin had seen to that. It was no coincidence, no accidental mishap or an attack on some pirate target gone wrong. Regardless of whether or not there had been any official declaration of war, the actions of the Kirin ships the previous night had set the wheels in motion. The only question was which government would issue the declaration first.
Cranberry Cream had been unconvinced by their arguments when she had come aboard the Celestial Spirit just before dawn. As provincial governor, she argued, the safety and status of Harmony Bay and its residents lay ultimately with her, and she refused to support or permit any activities that might bring the city into danger. The fleet was one thing, a legitimate military target, but civilians were not, and Cranberry was worried that the fleet sailing out from the harbour but remaining under the defensive cover from the shore batteries could invite the Kirin to attack the city, deliberately or accidentally, by long-range shelling.
In his cabin, Admiral Strongbow had exploded. "If you gave a damn for the citizens of this place, you would stand aside and support me," he had raged at the governor. "The fleet is their target. My ships, my sailors, and they are my responsibility, not yours. If the fleet remains in port, as you seem to wish, then not only do we invite the Kirin into gun range of the city, but we lose any possibility of regaining the initiative in this damn war. If my fleet is bottled up in the bay, what do you think the Kirin will do? Turn tail and go home? They will start by swarming and methodically eliminating our shore batteries, because there will be no ships to stop them. Then, they will start to pick off my ships with gunfire and torpedoes, because there will be no shore batteries to stop them. Every shell that misses my ships might hit the city you claim to want to protect, and if they sink my ships, what then? If you are lucky, only then will they turn and leave. If you are unlucky..."
"So fight them away from the coast," Cranberry had demanded indignantly, her piercing blue eyes burning with an arrogance that manifested itself in her words, demonstrating a lack of understanding of the military side of the situation and drawing a sharp rebuke from the Admiral.
"I cannot," Strongbow had declared. "My fleet is hurting. I have lost one ship, two more are crippled, others damaged. We are as prepared as we can be, but we are not ready for battle in open waters. We need the support of our shore batteries, which means we must remain near the coast. The Kirin can kill my fleet and they can kill our batteries if we allow them to fight first one, then the other. If we make them fight both at once, then I think they will be rather more reluctant."
Cranberry Cream had tried once more to exercise her authority as governor, demanding that she be listened to, but Strongbow was having none of it. He did not quite go so far as to have her escorted from his ship, but he made it quite plain to her that, unless an order to the contrary was received from the Princess herself, his fleet would sail as soon as the picket ships spotted the Kirin fleet. Turning on her heel, a deflated but defiant Cranberry had departed aboard a launch, returning to the shore to prepare the city for the possibility of stray shells landing among the citizenry. Strongbow, despite the early hour, had poured himself a shot of vodka and swallowed it before continuing to prepare his fleet for war.
"Your Highness, His Excellency Summer Forest, and Her Excellency Raisin Rise."
Princess Celestia nodded. "Send them in," she commanded, seated regally atop her throne, a suitable spectacle for the Kirin ambassadors, who had previously spoken with her in her drawing room and study. No longer dressed casually, she was once again wearing her flowing, angelic white robes. Seated beside her was her younger sister, Luna, her midnight blue gown a sharp contrast but no less regal in appearance when combined with her silver diadem and jewellery. The two Kirin approached and bowed their heads, their long reddish manes quite typical of their race, most punctiliously dressed in suits despite the hour, for it was still the middle of the night.
""Good morning, Your Excellencies," Celestia greeted them cordially enough, before striking home. "Before I say anything else, perhaps I should give you an opportunity to explain for yourselves."
"Begging your pardon, Your Highness...explain what?" Raisin Rise asked, a dark brown Kirin mare and the senior of the two diplomats.
"I am sure you already know, and if you do not, then I must question what purpose you serve here as diplomats if your own government do not deign to inform you when they are to launch an act of war upon another sovereign nation," Celestia replied bluntly, keeping her anger in check and her voice level and calm. The two Kirin exchanged nervous glances with each other.
"War, Your Highness? But surely, we are at peace. We know nothing of war," Raisin Rise spoke first.
"We are here as peaceful ambassadors of the Kirin Empire, Your Highness," Summer Forest added, a dark blue Kirin male of a similar shade to Luna. "If something has happened..."
"A short while ago, I received a report from the province of Northwick," Celestia informed them. "Our province. An Equestrian province, as you both well know, and home to the Northern Fleet of the Royal Equestrian Navy. Several hours ago, an attack by Kirin destroyers was launched upon our fleet at its anchorage, and now hundreds of ponies are dead."
"Your Highness...no, there must be some error," Raisin blurted. "I assure you, we knew nothing of this, if it is true...if it is true, then if you would please allow us to speak with our government...we will return to our embassy and attempt to ascertain exactly what..."
"We know exactly what has happened, ambassador," Luna interrupted her. "As my sister said, our fleet was attacked, and now sailors are dead. We know what. We do not yet know why. If you cannot tell us, then perhaps there is no further use for you here at court."
Celestia put a calming hand upon her sister's arm. "This attack was unprovoked and uncalled for. It is a violation of international diplomatic law. That no declaration of war was given before the attack took place is completely unacceptable, and will be met with a response in kind. Please inform your government that, as of this moment, a state of war exists between our two nations."
"But Your Highness, I..." Raisin stuttered, aghast.
"Enough!" Celestia snapped. "You are here to act as the representatives of your Empress, and either she has agreed to this attack, or she has been undermined by other forces within her government or military. In either case, your negotiations have failed, through no fault of ours. Evidently your government or your Empress has decided that they wish a show of force instead of a show of peace."
"I can assure you, Your Highness, we knew nothing of this!" Raisin exclaimed. "We were ordered only to conduct peaceful negotiations over the future status of the Northwick province and its inhabitants. We were unaware of any such attack being planned by anybody!"
"We shall see," Celestia replied. "Return to your embassy, tell them what I have said. We are now at war. If they wish to end the conflict, if this truly was some mistake, then your Empress can instruct you on how to proceed. If it was deliberate, then she has already tipped her hand and revealed the truth. Your negotiations, like it or not, appear to be a mere ruse, Your Excellencies. A smokescreen, nothing more, intended to distract while other, more concrete preparations were made in secret." She gestured for them to leave, and both ambassadors bowed obsequiously before backing out of the throne room. Luna looked at her sister.
"What now?" she asked the elder Princess. "And what if this truly is not what it seems? A rogue Kirin Admiral or some ultranationalist sect run amok?"
"We can only wait and see if that is the case, dear sister," Celestia replied. "I am sure the Kirin Empress will react accordingly if so. But their attack has left us with only one choice in the meantime. We must fight."
It was a dull, overcast morning, just like so many others in Harmony Bay. The only thing that made this one any different was the panic.
There was an early train at seven that morning, and it had been crammed full, even though it was only going to Yakyakistan, hardly the most exciting destination. Yaks and ponies alike, the well-to-do mostly, had gathered up their belongings and booked passage out of the city. A most unedifying spectacle had developed at the station, with pushing and shoving, foals and old mares being shoved aside in the scramble for seats aboard. The train had departed twenty-five minutes late because of the crush, its passenger wagons throbbing with life, far too many creatures being squeezed into each one. Though the city itself had not yet been attacked, the implications were there, especially after governor Cranberry Cream's broadcast, made over loudspeaker from the city hall, warning citizens to stay indoors or seek shelter in basements in case of stray shells.
Ponies and Yaks were afraid. They lived in a military city, in essence; they knew that. But the warning about becoming the target themselves, deliberately or otherwise, startled many of them into flight. Another train departed at 9, and it too was crammed to the gills with ponies. Those who could not afford to simply book a train ticket on a whim remained behind, obeying the governor's orders as best they could and seeking safety in basements and solace in the arms of friends and family.
For the sailors of the fleet, however, there was nowhere to hide. They were preparing to sail straight into the teeth of a howling gale, not of wind, but of steel and high explosive. The Kirin fleet had been sighted by one of the patrol destroyers, the Windward, and tracked through the early morning, watched at a distance by the keen observer-Pegasi flying above the Equestrian ship. The smoke trails, funnels and masts of the Kirin were visible over the horizon, and the observers had been busy counting them, correlating their sightings with the observations made by the Destiny before it was sunk. They matched almost exactly, but what did not was the second group of smoke-trails sighted by the patrol cruiser Northern Light.
Some thirty miles south of the group sighted by the Windward, the cruiser's observers had spotted a long string of smoke-trails that had to be from ships. Believing they had the Kirin fleet in sight, they had radioed the fleet, but found the same problem from the night before was persisting. Unable to establish radio contact, they turned tail, the Northern Lights arriving back in Harmony Bay an hour after the Windward, to find the fleet already preparing to sail out.
Making her report, the cruiser's captain had informed Admiral Strongbow of the sighting, which caused great confusion. The Kirin, so far as was known, possessed only enough capital ships to form a single large fleet and a number of coastal patrol divisions. Had they been so rash as to commit their coastal forces to this attack as well, thus leaving their homeland open to a possible counterstroke? Had they divided their main fleet during the night? Or was something else afoot?
The fact that the Windward's sightings corresponded almost exactly with those of the Destiny the night before all but confirmed it was the same fleet that the two destroyers had sighted, but then what had the Northern Lights been looking at? The two reported sightings were taken at almost the same time, meaning there was no way it could be the same force. This second group of vessels had also not been on course for Harmony Bay, but rather steering south of it, as though they were keeping deliberately clear of the port for some unknown reason. Merchants, alerted to the newly developing conflict, perhaps? No, there were too many of them. A pirate fleet, opportunistically out for blood and plunder? Again, too many of them, and much too far from their bases in the archipelago in the distant south.
So what exactly was this second group comprised of?
The matter had to wait, for the imminent threat was from the main Kirin fleet. The second group of ships might have been a ruse, to lure them out of their base, or it could be the Kirin's backup, waiting out at sea for orders to attack and outflank or envelop the Equestrians. Strongbow did not know, and could not expend time and energy thinking about it just yet. His ships needed to be ready for what he knew was definitely coming, not what might be heading their way in the future.
Reinforced by the two patrol ships which had returned, though not the third, the destroyer Windfall, which was still searching the seas in a different sector, the fleet brought up steam and prepared to move out. The Celestial Spirit took its symbolic place at the head of the main line, leading the two undamaged battleships, one battlecruiser, five cruisers and a dozen destroyers, out from the inner harbour. The Kirin were on their way and it would be less than an hour before battle was joined.
The civilian merchantponies and the fleet's non-combatant and support craft sounded their sirens and whistles in salute as the fleet weighed anchor and began to move. Their crews lined the railings, and ponies lined the wharves and piers, waving handkerchiefs and flags as though the fleet were out for review before the Princess and not on their way to war. Those who had not fled or already taken shelter, it seemed, were supportive of their brave sailors, even if the provincial government was not.
The Defiant took its place in the line, out on the port flank of the fleet, slipping out of the narrow neck of the bay and into the open water under the overlooking promontory at the tip of Fat Colt Island. The gunners of the fortress above them cheered and sounded bugles and trumpets, and the fleet answered with whoops of their collision sirens, a triumphal chorus of both the instruments of music and the instruments of war.
Greenwood stood at his station near the port torpedo tubes, assigned there again by Captain Oakheart. It suited him; the bridge was all well and good, but this was the business end of the ship, where the action happened. The torpedo crews had been well-blooded last night, getting two kills for no losses among the Defiant's crew. It was an excellent start to any war, at least on an individual's terms. The damage to the fleet had been considerable, but at least the Defiant had ensured the enemy did not get away unscathed from their daring raid.
This day, however, would be different, whatever the outcome. This was no night-time surprise, but a fleet action, where the big guns of the big ships would carry the day. Yet there was room for a destroyer among the melee; if one could get into range, a torpedo volley could be just as devastating against an enemy capital ship as it had proved to be in the early hours of that morning. Capital ships were armoured, for the most part, but that armour tended not to extend very far below the waterline for reasons of weight, stability, cost and ease of construction. Belt armour was common, strips of thick, strong plating that extended just below the waterline along the flanks of a ship, the most likely places for a torpedo to strike. Newer ships, including the Celestial Spirit, also had torpedo bulges, empty compartments fitted to the sides of a ship below the surface and then filled with water, designed to cushion the blow of an underwater explosion in a similar way to a layer of earth atop a bunker would on land. Nevertheless, even a ship fitted with both of these features could still succumb quite easily to a single, well-placed torpedo. That was the main purpose of destroyers, and also the small shoal of little torpedo boats that accompanied the fleet from harbour. The torpedo boats were about a third of the length of the Defiant and only possessed one or two torpedo tubes, but they added a useful adjunct to the fleet's firepower, if they could get close enough to the enemy without being blown clean out of the water.
With the flagship leading the way, its damaged hull patched up by hours of hard work overnight, Admiral Strongbow's force moved out, under the protective umbrella of the shore batteries. As they did so, one of the batteries signalled to them with a lamp; enemy sighted.
Pegasi spotters were immediately sent aloft, and confirmed it for themselves. Smoke on the horizon, out to the east-southeast. Getting closer. The Kirin were almost upon them.
Strongbow sounded battle stations and full speed ahead. His ships kicked up some speed, the destroyers and cruisers spacing themselves out, the battleships in line astern, with the battlecruiser Resolution to the starboard of the flagship. The Kirin fleet crested the horizon a few minutes later, a most unnerving sight to the unblooded crews of many of the Northern Fleet's vessels, those which had not seen combat or death the night before. This would be the first action for so many sailors and junior officers that to read their names would be like reading the entire personnel roster for the fleet. That was the disadvantage of not having a major naval engagement for decades.
The Kirin, however, would have the same issue, not only having not fought another navy recently, but having a long period of national isolation before that. Their crews would be just as green and inexperienced, which would mean the results of this battle would come down to one of two factors; who had the better training, and who had the better luck.
With the radio still proving problematic, Strongbow used signal lamps and flags to pass the word to his ships. They were outnumbered by the Kirin, but they had the shore batteries behind them, who could cover their retreat or add their firepower to an assault. Everything depended on what the Kirin chose to do. Their gunmetal-grey ships were painted with umber and white diagonal stripes along the flanks, the colours of their national flag, which flew from every masthead in the fleet.
The six battleships led the line, their great, steep prows cutting through the water menacingly, heavy twelve-inch guns in double or triple turrets crowning their foredecks, squat superstructures and canted funnels, painted with rings of black, white and dark red, perhaps to indicate membership of a certain fleet or squadron, or perhaps merely for symbolic purposes. Equestrian intelligence on the Kirin navy was scant at best. Other than a list of ship names and rough silhouettes that the local consular staff had managed to scribble down and sketch while out walking in Kirinton's naval base, there was very little else to grace the pages of any Equestrian captain's tactical notes when he turned to the chapter marked Kirin.
The rest of the Kirin fleet was widely spaced, covering a large area of sea, perhaps anticipating early fire from the shore batteries and Equestrian heavy guns. In fact, as Strongbow quickly noted, the Kirin ships were keeping a wary distance from the shore, content to sit out to sea and slowly move to battle formation, trying to tempt the Equestrians out to play. Strongbow was having none of it. Their transparent come-on was not going to wash with a commander of his experience. He deduced that the Kirin were afraid of the shore batteries, as well they might be; together, the two forts on Fat Colt Island and the wetern headland contained half a dozen sixteen-inch heavy cannons, a larger caliber weapon than that fitted to any battleship, due to weight and size constraints. The massive guns posed a very potent threat to anything afloat, and though they had never fired in anger against a Kirin vessel, Strongbow had no doubt at all that they would prove deadly to their warships should they come into range.
Clearly, the Kirin Admiral was no fool, but nor was he or she a coward. Their ships were happy enough to come within range of the Equestrian fleet, now arrayed out in the open channel outside of the harbour. The enemy was the first to fire, several ranging shots from their lead vessel landing well wide of their target, which was either the Celestial Spirit or the Resolution, for they splashed into the sea harmlessly between the two vessels. Strongbow kept the fleet driving on, intending to turn and Cross the T of the enemy line if possible, while ordering his destroyers to outflank and close with any enemy capital ship they could engage with. The torpedo boats followed suit. Unfortunately, so did the Kirin.
There were twenty destroyers with the enemy fleet, and twice as many torpedo boats bringing up the distant rear, which now began to race forward to close the gap. They were too small of a target for the massive fortress guns to easily hit, and the same applied to the main batteries of the Equestrian capital ships. Their secondary armament, however, was a lot more able when it came to engaging small, manoeuvrable targets. Strongbow flashed his orders; all ships were to focus their main battery fire on the enemy battleships and cruisers, while their secondary guns were free to engage any enemy destroyers or torpedo boats that came into range.
The frontal turrets of the Celestial Spirit opened up, joined moments later by those of the Resolution as it sped along beside the flagship. Their shells went even wider than those of the Kirin had, landing well clear of any imperilled vessel and exploding in the water. The other battleships of the Northern Fleet, the Northwick and the Stalliongrad, spread out and opened fire as well. Not a single shot connected with anything at the other end.
Greenwood watched from the railing of the Defiant, straining his neck to see as he heard the shots from the Equestrian battleships. He could see the enemy fleet ahead, but so far as he could tell, none of them had yet been hit. That would surely change. The standard of gunnery among the fleet was the butt of many jokes, but most naval jokes were at the expense of other branches of service or other stations within a vessel- the stokers telling jokes about the gunners, the gunners telling jokes about the stokers- and were mostly friendly banter among crewmates. Surely some of the witticisms about the gunners had to be cut from whole cloth and not based in fact?
Oakheart ordered the Defiant ahead at thirty knots. Some of the smaller Equestrian torpedo boats were overtaking them, cutting through the water like racing yachts, unimpeded by the bulk of larger vessels and almost bouncing from crest to crest of the small waves that dotted the sea. They would be storming into the fight, and inevitably, at least a few of them would not return to port. If that was the limit of the fleet's losses, however, then things would have worked out rather well for them.
The Kirin battleships adopted a firing line, starting a gentle turn to bring their aft turrets to bear as well as those on the foredeck. Shells whistled over the Equestrian battleships, plumes of water rising from the sea nearby. Still off target, but getting closer with each volley, despite the Kirin ships staying at range, refusing to be drawn into the cones of fire of the shore batteries that had the back of the pony fleet.
As the destroyers and torpedo boats of both navies closed in, the heavy guns of the capital ships continued their long-range duel with each other, and it was the Kirin that struck the first blow. A shell whistled down upon the forecastle of the Stalliongrad, exploding but failing to punch through the steel plating that lay below the wooden-planked deck. Splinters and shrapnel whickered across the deck and pattered against the two fore-turrets like hail, rattling the gunners inside but doing no damage.
The Defiant continued on course, Oakheart driving her hard for one of the Kirin behemoths, its triple-barrelled turrets blazing brightly against the unbroken grey of the sea and sky, each shot making the ship and her crew reverberate, like a bell being struck by a hammer. The mighty guns were deadly, and the more of them that could be silenced, the better. The battleships of both fleets, however, did not only possess large-caliber cannons. They also had a goodly complement of smaller weapons, four, five or eight-inch guns, some in turrets, some merely fronted by gunshields like many of the shore batteries. These were of limited use against a heavily armoured target, but against smaller vessels, merchants, shore installations and anything else that was not sheathed in thick steel, they were just as deadly.
The secondary batteries of the Kirin capital ships opened fire as soon as they could get a bead on a target that was coming into range. At first, that meant the torpedo boats, the cavalry of the sea, moving fast and hard to hit. Hard, but not impossible, and from Greenwood's position manning the fully-loaded port torpedo tubes, he could see at least one Equestrian boat find itself on the receiving end of a shell, perhaps an eight-incher. It was there one second, and the very next, most of it was underwater, ripped apart by the blast and the explosion of its own torpedoes and driven beneath the waves by her own momentum. Of the crew there was no sign at all.
Half a dozen Equestrian boats made it into range and fired, accurately enough, a pair of torpedoes each, streaking out just below the surface as they turned desperately away to avoid the hail of lighter fire from the Kirin's secondary batteries, machine guns and rapid-fire light cannons, designed and mounted for use against just such a threat. The rest of the Equestrian boats either turned away in panic or simply could not get close enough for an accurate shot, wasting their torpedoes with wildly off-target launches. Of the torpedoes that had been launched, only two found their targets, striking a Kirin cruiser and one of their unfortunate battleships but failing to penetrate their heavy belt armour.
Now it was the turn of the destroyers, and Oakheart was keen for a successful repeat of their attack on the Kirin destroyers from the previous night, or, more accurately, their destruction of the pirate, for a similar turning maneuver would be vital here to avoid sailing straight into the sights of the Kirin guns.
"Port torpedo battery, standby to fire. Angle of attack one-eight degrees. Standby all tubes," came the order over the tannoy.
"Run out the launcher, one-eight degrees!" Greenwood bellowed, eager for the action to begin. The tension had been building during their entire voyage, from the moment the whoops and sirens from the port ceased. They had sailed out under the guns of their forts and into open water, and now the moment was at hand. The crew was blooded from the night before, and from the pirate they had sunk, and Greenwood knew that Barleycorn and the others were up to the task. Despite the chill air and the potential for icy spray to be tossed up by the ship's motions, several of the torpedo crew were still shirtless, clearly made of hardy stuff, though as winter arrived with a vengeance in a couple of weeks, Greenwood imagined even they would start to wrap up warm for above-deck operations.
"Starboard battery, fire all tubes!" Oakheart ordered as the ship turned slightly to port, before the Defiant began to heel over hard to starboard.
"Port battery, fire all tubes!" Greenwood slammed the firing control. A trio of torpedoes were unleashed as the enemy fleet came into view, a terrible sight so close to an Equestrian shore. No pirate force was this, but a true, disciplined, well-equipped navy. That much was evident from a glance, for their capital ships were pirouetting in quite the elegant manner to bring their guns to bear while still maintaining their formation. Their destroyers were performing a similar role to the Defiant, but many of them appeared to be going after the Equestrian torpedo boats; that, after all, had been the original purpose of the destroyer, before they had been fitted with torpedo tubes themselves and given a similar task to the smaller boats.
Several shells landed near the Defiant as she turned, mid-caliber guns trained upon them from one or more of the Kirin vessels. Then followed a shock, to the mind as well as the body. The Defiant had fought through the encounter with the pirate and through the enemy night attack without a scratch, but that run of luck was brought to an abrupt and noisy end. A shell, well-aimed, struck the destroyer amidships on the port side as she turned. Greenwood, so focused on watching the run of his torpedoes as they sped toward the enemy, scarcely heard the shell coming in, but he felt the concussive blast from behind as it sent him staggering against the launcher. HIs uniform flapped as though he were walking against a stiff breeze, and several of the torpedo crew fell to the deck, winded or wounded, he could not tell which.
They had been hit, that much was clear, but how bad was it?
Greenwood scrambled to check on the crew. They were all still breathing and moving; that was good. Minor wounds, perhaps, cuts and scrapes, nothing more. He turned to survey the damage. Whatever size the shell had been, it had made a good account of itself, for the deck was splintered and smashed, the side of the superstructure stove in just abaft the beam, at least one hatchway completely wrecked. Whether there was any internal damage, he could not say. He heard the tannoy blaring out Oakheart's orders.
"Damage control party, damage control party, port side, deck three amidships. Port side, deck three amidships."
Another shell landed close aboard the railing and drenched him in salt water. Somebody had evidently singled out the Defiant for a good hiding. The ship shuddered again as something else hit them, somewhere over on the starboard side this time. They were too close for comfort; the farther away a ship was, the less accurate its guns would generally be, and the fewer of its secondary batteries would be within range. To launch their deadly silver fish, the Defiant had to suffer the perils of all destroyers and motor-torpedo boats.
They were not alone. Another destroyer, the Windrider, was hit hard in the superstructure, smashing one funnel and destroying her radio room, killing a dozen ponies. Another, the Windraven, took a hit on the bridge, killing her captain. Another even more luckless ship, the Diligence, sister to the Defiant, had a hole torn in her side by a ten-inch shell and overturned in minutes, disappearing beneath the waves along with most of her crew.
The damage was not confined to the destroyers and torpedo boats. The Celestial Spirit came under fire, shrugging off most of the glancing hits from Kirin shells but losing one of her secondary guns and a score of crewponies. The battlecruiser Resolution was set ablaze for a short while when a shell ripped through her deck armour and ignited a paint locker. The fire spread to several crew berths and workshops before being extinguished by the damage control teams. The Equestrian ships, however, finally started to enact a toll of their own in response.
Two of the Kirin destroyers and half a dozen of their torpedo boats were sunk as they dared approach for an attack run, and observers reported direct hits on three of their cruisers, one battlecruiser, and two battleships. At least some damage had been done in the long-distance firefight, and Admiral Strongbow hoped to sucker the enemy in. He ordered the flagship and the Resolution, as well as two of the cruisers, to make smoke and turn for home, as though they were fleeing the battle in disarray. This they did, and the rest of the fleet followed, turning away from the Kirin.
Strongbow's ruse was not going to be effective, however. The Kirin Admiral did not follow, so keen did they appear to be to keep their ships out of range of the shore batteries. Only the destroyers and torpedo boats set off in any kind of pursuit, inflicting some more damage to the two rearguard cruisers of the Equestrian force. The battle was over, at least for the day. Strongbow's force had taken losses and casualties, and heavy damage had been caused to several of his capital ships, but a similar toll had been taken on the enemy. Neither side could afford to simply stride on and attempt to deal a more decisive blow; the Kirin did not want to come into range of the shore batteries, and Strongbow could not afford a straight fight with the superior numbers of the fleet from across the sea.
The Northern Fleet returned to port, the shelter of its waters and the cover of its forts. The Kirin stayed out at sea, standing off at a distance, out of range. It was a stalemate, and was quickly reported as such by telegraph to Canterlot, in response to the orders which had come through while the fleet had been at work. Celestia had ordered Strongbow to do exactly what he had done; take the fleet out, engage the enemy if possible, but do not overcommit and risk losing ships or ponies unnecessarily. Naval reinforcements would be organised as soon as possible.
Strongbow was content with his actions so far. They had given the Kirin a bloody nose, albeit while taking one in return in the process, and kept them at bay. The shore batteries were now fully manned, their guns ready for action should the Kirin attempt another night attack. The fleet had begun repairs the moment it returned to port, with the wounded transferred to hospital and the dead taken for burial. They had to be ready for anything.
Some one hundred miles to the west, a column of ships continued their stately progress, almost arriving at their destination. It had been a long trip across the sea, especially for the cargo, down below decks. While the Kirin battlefleet blockaded Harmony Bay, these ships were on a different route, strung out on the slate-grey ocean like a string of pearls. They were not going to Harmony Bay. The ships were not.
But their cargo was.
The little Yak fishing village of Whalebone Beach had not lived up to its name for many years, decades even. The whales had stopped coming anywhere near it a long time ago, preferring a more easterly course for some unknown reason, and if there had ever been a beach worthy of the title it had long since eroded away, just a little stub of shingle jutting out from the turbulent waters of the Great Eastern Sea. Here they were, at the base of the Northwick Peninsula, a hundred miles from Harmony Bay, where the commercial fishing trawlers plied their far more successful trade, and several hundred more from Yakyakistan, their homeland's capital.
But the locals scarcely minded any of that. If this was almost the edge of the world, then it was only right that Yaks, that hardiest of races, be the ones to live here. Catching fish was not in their blood like it was for some of the other races- there was no ancient tradition of perching with a rod on a riverbank or swooping from the heavens like a Griffon for a bite- but Yak fishers were still successful at their task, so long as the fish could be found.
There were plenty in these waters to hoose from. Cod, herring, fine salmon often found in the mountain streams that flowed down to the sea, and crabs, mostly filthy mudcrabs that were avoided wherever possible, but some of the deeper red king crabs, too. They all made good meals for the Yaks, and could be sold to those who lived farther inland and had never taken to the coastal life, for there were many who lived such. Most Yaks still followed their ancestral lifestyle, perhaps not in the wandering, nomadic sense in many cases, but still adopting the traditional garb, food, tentlike housing and general culture. It was a land that offered little. The harsh climate meant it was difficult to grow crops, hence the Yaks predilection for wandering, to find new grazing lands, for they could eat the same grass as their steppe-horse mounts and the mountain goats and hardy sheep they kept for sustenance and clothing.
That had not stopped fishing communities like Harmony Bay and Whalebone Beach from springing up, however, as the Yaks had expanded their territory over the years. Now it was all part of greater Equestria, only autonomous in the vaguest of senses, but the Yaks of today, for the most part, cared little for that. So long as they could live their lives in ways they saw fit, and so long as their leaders were not imprisoned, or worse, by the Equestrians, most Yaks were contented to live under their yoke. The Yaks had had their turn to rule most of the known world, but that was long ago, and now it was the turn of the ponies to control the majority of the continent.
A fishing smack had just come into the small harbour with a fresh catch and a strange report. The village elders had gathered to listen to the tale, but before the sailors could complete their story, a shout arose from outside of their hut. They dutifully filed out to see what the commotion was. Out beyond the shallow bay, a long, curved strip of the coast with a gently sloping shingle beach, lay the open water, and the curiosity to which the fishers had been referring.
Just rounding the craggy headland was a ship, coming into view. No, not just one ship, but two...now three, now half a dozen. They were big- from the fleet down the coast, perhaps? An exercise from Harmony Bay? The villagers knew of no such exercise, but news travelled slowly to the isolated settlements this far out. Perhaps a plan to which they, lowly commoners that they were, had not been made privy. They were warships alright, at least, some of them were. They moved almost lazily across the water, while more funnels and smoke could be seen farther out to sea, a picket line of sorts, perhaps, to guard against the enemy, whoever was playing that part in this exercise.
Curious, mused the elders, as they noted a detail that the Yak sailors had not. The ships were not flying Equestrian flags at all. Perhaps these were the enemy, in that case, a detachment from the port playing the role of some dastardly foreigner.
Coming up behind were fat, slow merchant ships, and soon they seemed to cover the outer bay like a carpet. There were at least fifty of them, and it was not long until the sea began to foam with oars and motors, for approaching the little village from the huge cargo vessels were innumerable boats, barges and launches, each one loaded to the brim with ponies. Even more curious.
The Yaks gathered on the edge of their village to watch the spectacle. Even the foals were roused from their afternoon slumbers to see as the ponies came ashore. Except they weren't ponies at all.
The first Kirin boats hit the beach, their keels grinding on the shingle. The soldiers they carried jumped clear, some of them bending down to kiss the stones beneath their booted feet, so glad were they to be back on solid ground after several weeks at sea. They were not navy, but army, and the water was not their preferred domain. They looked smart in their dark-blue uniforms, an outfit that could make one forgiven for thinking they were sailors, so similar was it to the Kirin navy's outerwear. Not all of the Kirin soldiers were so dressed, however; those in blue were the shock infantry, the elite of the Kirin army, and they wasted no time in rushing up the beach, rifles and submachine guns at the ready, on the lookout for Equestrian soldiers. Those following behind in the larger barges, towed by motor-tugs deployed from the biggest merchant ships and transports, wore a dark, rich khaki; they were the line infantry, the regulars. The bulk of the Kirin army, they marched with a disciplined beat to each step, something that could perhaps not quite be said of large sections of the Equestrian military, those recruited from ill-educated peasant farmers and labourers.
The Yaks looked on dumbfounded from the sidelines as this force from a distant shore made landfall in their little village. Trouble was a rare thing in this part of the world, so remote was it from anything approaching true modern civilization, that the whole affair began to take on a rather comical air to some of the younger Yaks. Surely this could not be anything sinister, or else the entire area would have been swamped with soldiers of the Sun, setting up gun emplacements, wire and minefields, to meet this invasion with a storm of fire? The ponies, they knew, valued this part of the world not because of its productivity or its Yak populace, but its strategic position and the protected anchorage that Harmony Bay offered for their navy. The Kirin would not simply be able to march unopposed onto the beaches. One did not simply walk into Northwick, or Yakyakistan, or anywhere that was controlled by the forces of the two sisters.
Yet here they were, hundreds, thousands of them, Kirin of all shades and ranks and uniforms; regulars, the elite shock troops, naval infantry, engineers. With them, they brought their equipment, which they rapidly began to unload as well, carried aboard heavy barges. As the troops moved out to secure a perimeter around the village, the Kirin guns began to land, as well as their supplies. Ammunition crates by the score, stacks of shells for the artillery, bullets for the rifles and machine guns, rations for the troops, horses, one of the few commodities actively traded for by the Kirin during their isolation, for the cavalry.
One Kirin officer, immaculately dressed in his black uniform with a white undershirt, peaked cap, and magnificent russet neck-ruff, approached the Yak elders, who regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and enmity. Who was he, this tall, handsome foreigner, with his odd headpiece and elegantly combed ice-blue mane, to interfere with their little village?
"Greetings to you, and my apologies for the commotion," he smiled. "I represent the Kirin Empress and her armed forces. We shall not be staying long in your town, charming though it is. We will try not to overstay our welcome as the ponies have."
"Yak know nothing of this!" the village elder grunted, in the curiously unpoetic cadence of his species. "Why you here? This Yak village!"
"Yes, it is indeed, isn't it?" the Kirin officer smiled and nodded. "That is what we have been trying to convey to Canterlot for some time now. Alas, they have not been receptive to the concept, so we are here to make quite sure that this village is yours and remains yours for generations to come."
"No ponies here," the elder pointed out. "Only Yaks. Ponies in next town! Why you looking for them, huh? You bring guns to peaceful village! Kirin have bad intentions..."
"Not at all, my good fellow," the Kirin clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Our intentions are nothing but honest and pure. We wish to free you, to make this land yours once more. We bring guns for self-defence, of course, as you would if going out hunting."
"You hunt with howitzers?" the Yak questioned, pointing at the heavy artillery guns being offloaded from a flat-bottomed barge nearby, their short, stubby barrels covered and plugged to prevent the salt air getting into them and corroding them during the sea voyage they had just undertaken.
"Yes," the officer smiled devilishly, a glint in his eye. "We hunt for ponies with howitzers."
The train rumbled into another siding and came to a halt with the hissing of its pneumatic brakes, causing another murmur of discontent to circulate among the long-suffering passengers. The journey was interminable. None among the 1st Battalion of the 45th Infantry Regiment had ever quite realised before exactly how far it was from one end of Equestria to the other, and none had any desire to ever repeat the journey, though eventually their unit would be rotated back to more civilised lands, which would mean another three weeks, perhaps a month, on board a different, but equally cramped and uncomfortable, train.
"Not again..." Captain Fine Feather sighed. Greenshield looked up from his half-slumber, jolted awake to a world, viewed from his threadbare seat, that was now more familiar to him in his own mind than his foalhood bedroom back at home, so long had he been part of it. The train kept moving, yet never seemed to go anywhere, like an endless nightmare of drudgery and leg cramp. He could only imagine how much worse it was for the soldiers in the freight cars behind.
"Another siding, ma'am?' Greenshield asked, looking out of the fogged window at the landscape outside, equally barren and no less desolate than it had been the last time he looked, however long ago that was, before his latest descent into the strange half-waking world he had been occupying, where a great octopus had been enjoying itself with a strange dance and a look of glee upon its face as it moved across a map of the world, giving him a friendly wave as it passed by before it was gone, over the horizon to who knew where, to continue its dance for somepony else.
"Looks like it," Fine Feather nodded. "There can't be many more of these before we reach Harmony Bay."
"I hope not..." Greenshield yawned, stretching and standing, making his way to the carriage's toilet to relieve himself. The only bit of excitement in the past couple of days was the shock news of the assassination attempt on the Princess, relayed to them when they stopped to refuel the locomotives at a remote waystation at the end of a mountain pass. As he stood over the toilet, he could hear a commotion outside and drew back the blind of the lavatory window to take a look. Half a dozen Equestrian officers were gathered in a small knot beside the tracks, and he could tell from a glance that they were not all from his Battalion, nor even his Regiment. At least one had the pillbox-cap of a Frontier Guard, while another wore the fur-lined hat of a member of the Eastern Command's permanent garrison troops. Major Opal Blitz, the 45th Regiment's commandant, was with them, in animated discussion with the mare with the red stripes and gold diamonds of a Lieutenant Colonel on the epaulettes of her thick trenchcoat. The Major, a gruff and stocky earth pony with a dark yellow coat and orange mane to match his fiery temper, was well-beloved by the stallions and mares of his command, as he cared deeply for the lives of his ponies and was always at the front of the line, leading any attack or at the sharp end of any defence. So the others told him, anyway. Greenshield had not seen any real action with the Regiment, or with any other unit, for that matter.
After giving his hands a rinse in the frigid water of the basin, he returned to his seat, easing his way through the outstretched legs and slumped shoulders of the rest of the company's command platoon, of which he was a member, in charge of the machine-gun section and under the direct command of Fine Feather, who had also picked up on the commotion outside and was peering from the window, wiping it every few moments with her gloved hand to get rid of the condensation.
"What's going on, ma'am? There's a bunch of officers outside. The Major is with them," Greenshield informed her.
"I know, I'm looking at them now," Fine Feather replied. "Frontier Guards...guess we really must be almost there, huh?" The Frontier Guards were something of an oddity, for they were a military force with, technically, no frontiers to guard within several thousand miles. Initially formed as a border protection unit when Equestria was expanding, they maintained that role on the borders with the Griffon Kingdom, Zebrica and the volcanic Protectorate of the Dragonlands, but the Yak territory was now subsumed into greater Equestria, with Northwick being a province and Yakyakistan a puppet state. The Frontier Guards here in this part of the world, therefore, had adopted a broader role as both an anti-smuggling force and an internal police of sorts. Some of the hardiest ponies and Yaks to be found anywhere were members of the Frontier Guards.
Suddenly, there were loud bangs on the side of the carriage and ponies shouting. "Disembark! All troops are to disembark and form up, rifles at the ready! Form up, disembark and form up!"
The cry was repeated down the length of the train, with members of the Frontier Guards hammering on the sides of the freight cars and hauling open their doors, leaving ponies of the 1st Battalion blinking in the stark daylight of a Northwick afternoon. Greenshield picked up his pack and rifle. This was not the first time they had been made to detrain seemingly in the middle of nowhere for a parade or inspection, but this time seemed different. There was an urgency to the shouts of the guards, and the officers seemed to be sharp with their words and orders. Greenshield followed Fine Feather from the train, hopping down to the gravel surface of the siding below. The troops were filing off as ordered and lining up by company. Despite the length of the train, it still only held one battalion of soldiers; the rest of the regiment was even further behind on board other trains, and suffering, no doubt, from equally interminable delays.
The ranks of khaki-clad soldiers contrasted with the white or black greatcoats and caps of their officers and the rich, dark blue of the Frontier Guards, who were present, Greenshield noticed, in some considerable numbers. Major Opal Blitz and the Lieutenant-Colonel of the garrison troops stood front and centre to address them.
"Soldiers of the First Battalion!" Blitz began. "I have grave news. We are at war."
The glances and murmurs of the soldiers told its own story. War? How could this be? With who? The chatter was quickly quelled by Blitz, and he continued. "The Kirin Empire has attacked the Northern Fleet at Harmony Bay and are now blockading the port. In response, Her Divine Highness Princess Celestia has decreed that a state of war exists between Equestria and the Kirin Empire."
The Kirin.
Greenshield was equal parts confused and terrified by the news. The Kirin were secretive, a lonely race from beyond the sea who had but a tiny, token presence anywhere on the main continent, with a small reclusive commune tucked away in the mountainous southern jungles somewhere, he had once heard. They were almost a complete unknown to the common pony, despite their obvious similarities in appearance. Most ponies knew little of them, and cared even less to learn. What Greenshield did know was that Harmony Bay was their destination, and that meant the war was uncomfortably close to him already.
"Furthermore, we have received word from Lieutenant-Colonel Burrowmane here," he gestured to the mare beside him, "that the Kirin may have mounted a landing at or near the town of Whalebone Beach, on the south side of the Northwick peninsula. Our orders are therefore to detrain here, form up with a local force, and march east to protect the railway bridge approximately five miles along this line. We will form a defensive position around the bridge to prevent the Kirin from pushing up from the south and cutting the rail line. It is believed they are attempting to surround Harmony Bay from the land as well as the sea. We must keep the lines of communication open so that the rest of the regiment can pass through safely. That is our objective, fillies and gentlecolts. I suggest you prepare yourselves for a march. We depart in five minutes. Dismissed!"
The confusion Greenshield had felt was now replaced entirely by fear. The war was even closer than he had imagined. No longer were they going to Harmony Bay to merely form part of the garrison and sit around idly watching the ships roll in. They were going into battle.
Back in port, the Northern Fleet licked its wounds. They had shown bravery, but did not have much to show for it. The damage to the Kirin fleet was minimal, as, mercifully, was the damage to themselves. The Kirin had outnumbered and outgunned them, but had been reluctant to commit their capital ships to the fray for fear of the shore batteries. That was enough for now; just keep them at bay until somepony could figure out what to do next. A small number of vessels from the Northern Fleet were elsewhere, having been out on long-term patrol or training duties at other east-coast ports, but even if they could break through the blockade they would not alter the balance of power significantly.
Disquieting news had been received, flashed down the telegraph from Fair Valley, the capital of Northwick. The Frontier Guards had reported a Kirin naval force off the coast, quickly amended to include numerous transports and followed a short while later by the troubling report of a landing being made at Whalebone Beach. It was unopposed; while Northwick had a plentiful garrison and there were large forces in neighbouring Yakyakistan too, the news of the attack on Harmony Bay had only been widely spread a few hours ago. Nobody had had time to prepare for repelling an invasion. Troops had been moved to reinforce Northwick gradually over the last six months, but that was more of a just in case move than anything else. Even with the Kirin's inflammatory rhetoric over the peninsula and the rights of the Yaks to govern themselves, nopony expected them to actually attack, and certainly not to try an invasion. While the major civilian ports were defended, smaller coastal villages were not; there were not enough troops to cover every single bay and inlet that could be used for a landing. The coastline of Northwick was as rugged as the inhabitants, with hundreds of coves and shingle beaches that could play host to enemy barges and boats, enough to get forces ashore, though truly heavy equipment and bulk unloading would need a proper port to allow transport ships to come alongside and dock.
If this purported landing were true, then Harmony Bay was in danger not just from out at sea, but on land as well. The Northwick peninsula was not particularly wide, getting narrower toward the tip. Harmony Bay lay halfway along its southern flank, while most of the northern side was rocky cliffs, and ice in winter. The majority of safe landing sites lay on the south side, and that was where the Kirin were being reported. It would not take too much marching to cut the rail and telegraph links between Harmony Bay and Fair Valley, or indeed from Fair Valley to Yakyakistan and beyond to Equestria proper. The motherland lay far to the west, and even Fair Valley was a good hundred miles away, and given Harmony Bay's importance as a military installation, that was why Governor Cranberry Cream and her staff were based in the port and not in the capital itself.
Admiral Strongbow and General Wild Willow disappeared into the General's office to do their best to plan the defence of the city with what they had. If the rumour was true then they might not have long to gather troops from surrounding towns and use them to help fill the trenches and forts that ringed the city, all of whom had garrisons, but which might not be able to withstand a major assault unless more soldiers arrived. That was what the incoming 45th and 52nd Infantry Regiments were meant to have been for, but now, if the rail line was cut, they might not arrive at all. At Wild Willow's direction, all town garrisons from the immediate area were withdrawn into Harmony Bay, and patrols along the rail line were doubled to watch for any sign of trouble. The civilians from those towns were also evacuated, those that wished to leave, at least. Many remained, especially the Yaks, unwilling to abandon their ancestral lands even if it put them in danger.
It was dark when the ponies of the 45th Regiment's 1st Battalion arrived at Caliclo Bridge. The bulky, box-girder construction had been built as part of the Northwick rail link, connecting the cities of Fair Valley and Harmony Bay to the rest of Equestria, via a trip through Yakyakistan and its confusing gauge-change requirements. The bridge spanned a rocky, tumbling gorge where a mountain stream had once flowed, but the waters had dried up since the bridge was built due to a rockfall farther upstream which had created a new path for the trickling river. If the bridge were to be captured or destroyed by the Kirin, then the railway could no longer be used to transport supplies or reinforcements to Harmony Bay, which seemed to be their primary target, though the commanders of the Northwick garrison also feared a pivot toward Fair Valley, which had no ring of steel surrounding it in the form of fortresses like the naval base did. Capturing the capital of Northwick would have a demoralising effect, but it would not have the same military implications that the loss of Harmony Bay or the destruction of the Northern Fleet would.
The bridge was a key location on the rail line, a chokepoint over which any train into Harmony Bay would have to roll. Even if the enemy did not want to destroy it, they could capture it and potentially use the line and its rolling stock to move their own supplies, either toward Harmony Bay or Fair Valley, depending on which way their axis of attack was leaning at any given time. If they wished to besiege the port, then the capture of the line would be of paramount importance to them- their landing site was many miles from the city, and though it was ideal as a launch point for an operation to sever the peninsula from the rest of the nation, it would leave the Kirin having to lug everything over less than friendly terrain for many miles in order to conduct a siege of Harmony Bay. If they wanted it intact, they needed to move quickly, which was why the Equestrians had moved quickly, too.
The 1st Battalion joined several hundred Frontier Guards and local police, who had established a strong position around the bridge. They kept it guarded at all times anyway, just in case any Yaks got smart ideas about sabotaging it as a show of protest against the regime. This force, a couple of dozen ponies, had been reinforced, and sandbagged positions set up at both ends of the bridge. A machine gun covered the most likely route of approach, up the relatively shallow defile through leafless woodland at the western end of the bridge. Tracks through the woods led, eventually, down to Whalebone Beach, where the Kirin were massing.
The Frontier Guards, though well trained and led, were not heavily armed; they were not truly meant to engage a hostile army in direct combat, but to provide border protection or, in event of war, rear echelon security behind friendly lines. The arrival of friendly soldiers was a very welcome sight for the bridge guards. It was a sleepless night as the 1st Battalion dug in around the structure, listening to it gently creaking as the temperature changed, dropping to a few degrees above freezing in the depths of the inky blackness. It would only get worse. Winter was but a week or two away from arriving in full force, and when it came in this part of the world, it came with a vengeance.
Greenshield, at Captain Fine Feather's direction, set up the company machine gun section where it had a good field of fire, tucked into the cleft of two large boulders and covering the approach up through the woods. Slit trenches were dug in front, where the hard rock gave way to equally lifeless soil. The rest of the company occupied them, foxholes and narrow shell scrapes cut into the earth by entrenching tools. There was no time for more elaborate preparations. The Kirin could be on them at any time.
They came at dawn, but not in the way the defenders had been expecting.
The woods ahead were quiet and dead, the trees having lost the last of their leaves just recently. They made a natural, rustling carpet that could alert a keen-eared soldier to the presence of the foe. Officers peered through field glasses and troopers watched with nervous eyes and steel cross-beam sights, their rifles checked and checked again during the night. Once the trenches had been dug there was little else for them to do. Food that was meant to be hot but which was invariably cold by the time it arrived had been circulated by the battalion's catering platoon, their portable cook-stoves and wheeled bread oven transported with surprising ease by positioning the two-wheeled carriage onto the rail track and simply rolling it along to the bridge. Their own train had gone through late in the evening, no longer loaded with soldiers but with a large quantity of supplies from the local rail depot which had been loaded with haste by Yak porters and sent on to Harmony Bay. The rest of the Regiment was still behind, their trains stopped short somewhere, no doubt, by the sudden threat to the line ahead.
Greenshield kept a watchful eye over the rest of the machine gun section, eight ponies in total- himself, the gunner and his spare, the loader and his second, two ammunition carriers, and a runner. The heavy gun could spit out almost seven hundred rounds per minute, and ate ammunition like a hungry locust swarm, requiring a constant stream of the canvas-linked belts to be provided to the gunner and his water-cooled weapon. The Mare-Isle campaign had confirmed, if such confirmation was necessary, that machine guns could have a devastating effect on massed infantry, both in the attack and the defence, and the Equestrian Army had accordingly expanded its supply of such weapons in order to, theoretically at least, provide one for every infantry company, plus machine gun companies at regimental level in a similar way to how their artillery force had operated for some time.
However, machine guns were only effective if they were facing the right way.
Gunfire suddenly erupted behind them, at the other end of the bridge; the eastern end, closest to Harmony Bay. Greenshield's head snapped round in alarm as cries and shouts went up. This wasn't right. The Kirin were meant to be coming from the west...
"Contact rear!" Fine Feather shouted. "Keep watch to your front, it could be a diversion!"
Greenshield nodded as the Captain rushed past to see what was going on. The ripple of rifle fire could be heard from across the bridge, which was meant to be the relatively safer end. The Kirin had landed at Whalebone Beach, so unless they had made another landing elsewhere or had managed to move troops by sea overnight, they should have been coming from the west, right into the sights of Greenshield's section and the rest of the company.
The gunfire continued for several minutes, joined by the rattle of a machine gun, yet still nothing from the west. The woods were as silent as they had been during the dead of night, and Greenshield felt a rising sense of unease. As much as he did not want to be shot at, he also didn't like not knowing exactly what was going on. At least the soldiers at the other end of the bridge had a task they could concentrate on, whereas all he could do was wonder.
Why aren't they attacking us here?
A whistling sound could be heard over the gunfire, and his ears pricked up.
"Incoming!" somepony cried, a second too late. A shell or a mortar bomb, something loud and explosive, landed nearby and threw up a plume of smoke and dirt. Ponies ducked reflexively, crouching low in their foxholes or behind the sandbags placed around the end of the bridge. Greenshield winced as his eardrums were pounded by the blast wave, but he was unharmed. More rounds began to land, and though he could not hear the telltale pop of the mortars firing over the sound of guns, he could tell by the size of the explosions and their regularity that was what was firing at them. A Kirin mortar team must be somewhere nearby, probably in a clearing in the woods or maybe just beyond the treeline somewhere.
A steady rain of mortar fire dropped on the western end of the bridge, pinning down the defenders and restricting their movements, while the battle raged at the other end of the structure. The Kirin, it seemed, were not keen on destroying the bridge, or else they might be unleashing heavier artillery against its defences. The mortars might do superficial damage, but they were not capable of bringing the bridge down. They were, however, capable of inflicting casualties.
A pony cried out in pain as a mortar round landed nearby with a thump. "Medic!" somepony else screamed. "Medic!"
Greenshield chewed his lip. A casualty. Their first of the war. Somepony he knew? Probably. This was his company, after all. Somepony he knew well? Perhaps not. Despite the almost magnetic allure of the idea of comradeship among soldiers, Greenshield had yet to truly make any friends in his unit. Did those under his command respect him? Yes. Did they obey him? Yes. But did they like him? He wasn't so sure.
Not that any of that really mattered right now. Mortar fire was still coming in, there was still shooting across the bridge, and everything was backward. Fine Feather came running back.
"Kirin are moving in regimental strength to the east!" she informed them. "Sergeant, get your MG over the river and support them."
"Yes ma'am..." Greenshield nodded, more confident in his gesture of affirmation than he actually felt. "Come on boys and girls."
The crew obeyed his command, packing up the gun, removing it from its tripod mounting. One pony slung the tripod over the back of their neck to carry it, another took the barrel, and the rest carried the wooden boxes of ammunition. The bridge boards thudded under their weight, their legs carrying them over to the eastern side of the crevasse. Squads of Frontier Guards were moving up with them, but if the captain was correct and the Kirin were pushing in with a regiment or more, then it seemed a futile gesture. They were not dug in for a major fight, and they had no artillery of their own save for a handful of mortars which were already thumping away in response on the far end of the bridge.
The eastern side was a stark contrast to the silent woods to the west. Rifleponies were firing from behind sandbagged emplacements and in their slit trenches. At least a dozen Kirin dead could be counted in front of them, but that was not the most alarming thing. The number of living Kirin was, for they were pouring over the craggy rocks to the southeast of the bridge like a swarm of ants, rifles and submachine guns firing as they moved. Several heavy machine guns were backing them up from among the rocks, pouring down streams of fire on the defenders. It was not only the attackers who had suffered casualties, for several slit trenches contained only the bodies of fallen ponies.
Greenshield ordered the squad ahead at the double, heads low, crouching behind the sandbags as best they could to reach a spot next to one of the machine guns from another company, 3rd, he thought, judging by a few faces he recognised. They were blazing away despite being down one crewmembers, a mare lying sprawled over the sandbags beside the gun, half her face shot away.
Greenshield's tram set up their gun again behind the sandbags, exchanging nervous glances with each other and with the other gun crew. The Kirin were sweeping down like a wave from the rocks not just to the southeast, but also the northeast, the other side of the tracks, suggesting they had already advanced to cut the rail line overnight. That was not good. Not good at all.
The gun went into action, sputtering and rattling, kicking like a mule as the gunner, Acorn Hope, gripped the handles and squeezed the trigger, working his deadly, flashing fire steadily across the onrushing Kirin. Their khaki uniforms blended well with the background, being a subtly different shade to the Equestrians- light brown for the Kirin, and a pale green for the ponies. The Kirin's vibrant manes and headpieces stood out, marking them out as the enemy even if there was confusion over the uniform. The gunners did not need to make such a distinction, merely firing into the mass of soldiers coming toward them.
Greenshield watched on, his rifle in hand in case the enemy got close. He had never fired it in anger before, though, like every infantrypony, it was meant to be his best friend and comfort at all times. Rugged, reliable, dependable, the Equestrian rifle had a five-round clip, was bolt action, had a mounting for a bayonet, which the Equestrian troops invariably kept fixed at all times when at war, and was accurate in the hands of a trained soldier. Marksponies and snipers were given a telescopic sight to affix to their weapon, enabling them to engage and pick off enemies at a much longer range, but even without the scope, the rifle was relatively accurate out to a range of seven or eight hundred yards.
The Kirin were already much closer than that, within the outer semicircle of trenches that had been dug around the end of the bridge. Greenshield could see a few desperate ponies crouching low behind a stack of wooden railway ties, firing their rifles when they had a chance. Several officers with submachine guns were spraying the enemy as they tried to hurl grenades into the defences. Another machine gun had been knocked out, its crew lying dead on the other side of the track.
It did not look good. There were several hundred Kirin coming at them, and all they had to do was push the ponies back to the other side of the bridge to cut the rail line, if they hadn't already. With the bridge in their hands, no trains would be able to make it to the port city unless the Kirin allowed it. Despite their valiant efforts, it was clear that the defenders did not have enough troops or firepower to repel the attack.
Another pony went down near to Greenshield, screaming and clutching at his side. A grenade demolished a sandbagged emplacement and killed a trio of Frontier Guards, their bodies tumbling. A squad of Kirin entering a defile ahead of Greenshield's gun were torn to pieces by Acorn Hope, who showed no compunctions about killing, holding down the trigger until they stopped moving.
"Fall back!" somepony cried. "Fall back!"
"What do we do, Sarge?" Acorn questioned, looking away from the sights of the machine gun for just a moment as the loader slipped a fresh belt of ammunition into it.
"Nothing yet," Greenshield grunted. The voice had not been one he recognised; it had no authority to it, just some panicked soldier screaming out in terror. He would wait for orders, definite orders from a superior officer, before he gave that command to his ponies. The machine gun began to fire again, laying down a hail of bullets and temporarily slowing the Kirin advance, but they still outnumbered the defenders, and attrition was beginning to tell upon them. The Frontier Guards were dwindling in number and the 1st Battalion was taking losses, including one of its mortar teams, killed by a well-thrown grenade from a Kirin. The defensive line around the eastern end of the bridge was rapidly buckling under the pressure.
"Orders from Major Blitz!" a pony shouted, rushing over to their sandbagged emplacement, speaking to both gun crews. "General retreat across the bridge. Machine guns to move first, go, go!"
"Pack it up!" Greenshield ordered. "We're falling back!" This time he could issue the order, and Acorn and the rest of the crew complied, dismantling the gun. While it would have made sense to have the machine guns covering the retreat of the rifleponies, that was not how the Equestrian military saw things. The machine guns were assets, force multipliers, to be preserved whenever possible- not at any cost, per se, but whenever it was reasonable to do so. Extricating them from the melee first was, by that logic, the most sensible course of action. One gun could provide as much firepower as an entire platoon of rifles, and at a much lower cost in terms of supply and upkeep. Guns did not need feeding or clothing; give them oil and ammunition and they would serve you well.
Under cover of rifle and mortar fire, the two machine guns pulled back from the sandbagged emplacement, racing back across the bridge as the Kirin stormed the line behind them. With the bridge being the only safe crossing point, it naturally came under heavy fire, striking down two of 3rd Company's machine gun crew as they ran. Greenshield's boots thumped on the planks of the bridge, he and his crew making it back alive to the other side. The mortars were next to pull out, and finally the infantry, one section at a time, leapfrogging each other in a backward movement, throwing smoke grenades behind them. Greenshield's machine gun covered the last of them from the western end of the bridge, firing blind into the smoke when it was clear there were no more ponies who were going to make it across.
Only then did the silent forest, now at their backs, come alive.
Dear Father,
I am alive, at least as of this writing. I cannot speak too freely of what transpired, for I know the military censors will only edit out whatever they do not wish you to know. As you will know by now, we have been attacked, and Equestria is at war. I must confess, I did not expect to be plunged into conflict so soon after our redeployment to the Northern Fleet, though I was prepared for the possibility.
It caught us all by surprise. Nopony expected the Kirin, or anyone else for that matter, to be so bold and direct. We were out on patrol and found ourselves frantically relaying the message back to the port, for one of our sister ships had encountered the enemy and did not make it home that night. The city is in a state of nervous tension now. Nobody knows what is happening. The Yaks are mostly resigned to it, but there is fear among them, and among the ponies, too. And, dare I say it, among the sailors of the fleet.
The garrison here is strong, but not, perhaps, as strong as they would like it. The fleet is battered but unbowed. We will be alright, father, I am sure of it. Of my dear brother, I have no news. My hope is that he is somewhere safe, but I have no doubt that if that is the case, he will still be sent to fight here. Celestia willing, we shall see each other soon to shake hands in victory. I will end this letter here- in fact I may never post it at all. The censors will remove so much it will just be me saying hello and goodbye.
Your loving son, Greenwood
A spare moment was always appreciated by ponies under arms, and Greenwood made good use of his, finishing his letter to his father and tucking it away into one of his books as a bookmark, a reminder to take it ashore and post it when he could. The Defiant was at one of the piers alongside half a dozen other destroyers, refitting as best they could after taking damage during their foray from port. Two shells had struck her and caused superficial damage, but only minimal casualties, with none dead and half a dozen wounded by splinters and concussion. They would all be back on duty within the day, according to the hospital on shore where they had been sent for treatment. That was welcome news, as was the arrival of a train of supplies from farther down the line. The crew had informed the garrison that the 1st Battalion of the 45th Infantry Regiment, who were meant to be aboard, had been deployed to protect a key bridge along the line instead. That both pleased and scared Greenwood, for he knew his brother was among them. On the one hand, he would not get to meet Greenshield any time soon, but on the other, it might at least spare his brother from whatever was coming their way in Harmony Bay.
The news of the Kirin landings had been met with incredulity from many, including Governor Cranberry Cream. How, they cried? How could the Navy let this happen?
Admiral Strongbow had argued back that the Navy could not have stopped it because nopony had warned them it was coming. The fleet, bottled up in port, had no chance to intercept the Kirin transports. A straight fight against the Kirin fleet would have turned into a slugging contest, hammerblow following hammerblow until one side was left crippled, burning or resting on the seabed, and in all probability, that would have been the Northern Fleet. They lacked the raw power to go toe-to-toe with the Kirin, who had come with overwhelming numbers on their side precisely, it seemed, for that very reason. They needed the Northern Fleet out of the fight, either by destroying them, as their surprise attack had attempted to do, or by keeping them tied up in Harmony Bay, unable to intercept the landings.
Estimates from the Bureau of Logistics suggested that the Kirin would need at least half a dozen heavy transports per day to make port somewhere along the peninsula in order to sustain a reasonable war effort that could hope to achieve their objectives, which, it seemed clear, were the capture of Harmony Bay and the capture or destruction of the Northern Fleet, as well as their stated propaganda aim- to liberate the Yaks, which in truth meant taking Northwick and presumably Yakyakistan to serve as Kirin satellite states to help ensure their domination of the Great Eastern Sea.
Hasty preparations had been underway in the city, strengthening cellars and shelters in case the Kirin got into artillery range from the landward side, or their fleet began a bombardment from out at sea. While the latter might have seemed unlikely on the face of it, given the presence of the shore batteries, in reality both the headland and Fat Colt Island were small enough that the Kirin ships could quite easily lob shells over them and strike the port, or the ships at anchor, though not with any real accuracy as they would be firing blind.
Greenwood returned to the top deck of the ship after leaving his cabin. With the ship at anchor, many of the crew were working on repairs and reprovisioning, but some had been granted shore leave, especially those who had been active in operating the guns or torpedo tubes during the battle. The ship was not expected to sail again for several days, if even then; patrols were still being sent out under cover of darkness, but that was a role currently being handled mostly by the torpedo boats, who were smaller and even more nimble than the destroyers. When the fleet would next sally forth to engage the Kirin en masse, none could say save for Admiral Strongbow, and even he might not know the answer, for it would depend on what orders he received from Canterlot.
Greenwood headed down the gangway and onto the solid concrete of the dock, its pilings sunk deep into the mud of the bay. The Windraven was moored at the next pier, its bridge a smashed ruin, with shipwrights and engineers working on it. Streams of sparks sprayed out like fountains from their welding torches. Her captain, Macaroni Mist, had been a former shipmate of Oakheart when they both served together on the old semi-armoured cruiser Crow, which, in a curious turn of events, had been sunk as an obsolescent target craft by the Celestial Spirit when the flagship had entered service, to test her guns and fire control systems.
Greenwood left the pier, dressed in his uniform beneath his coat, though he could have worn civilian clothes when going ashore; the Navy needed to do everything it could to portray a good image, given how the governor, and many citizens, felt they had let Harmony Bay and Northwick down by not stopping the Kirin landings. The radio communication problems they had suffered meant nothing to the civilians, it seemed, nor the surprise nature of the Kirin attack, nor the failure of Equestrian foreign intelligence to alert them to any developments. Nopony had seemed to deem it necessary to report the departure of the Kirin fleet from their bases, if indeed anypony had actually noticed. Other than the consular staff at the embassy and a few intrepid explorers and traders, there were very few ponies who actually lived or worked in the Kirin Empire.
The only reason, or so the story went, that the Kirin's lands had not been claimed by Equestria in the past were the great distances involved in crossing the sea. By the time galleons and frigates had come about to enable such a conquest, it had already been decided to leave the Kirin alone so long as they did not try to interfere elsewhere. That happy arrangement had continued until the Kirin put themselves into their reclusive period of self-isolation, during which time even less attention was paid to them. They had, however, clearly been busy developing their navy during that time. It was known that they had ships on a par with any Equestrian, Griffon or Zebrican vessel, but that had been accepted because they had not shown any kind of aggressive intent to deploy them in the past. It was only recently when their rhetoric had become more fiery, and directed itself against Equestria.
The port city was a lot quieter than usual. Gone were the crowds of shoppers from the drab high street, the foals playing hoop or ball in the park. There were a lot of eyes peeking from behind twitchy curtains, plenty of police and soldiers, and labourers hauling crates and barrels. That was all. If not for the gaily-painted houses, it would be easy to imagine that the entire city was a military facility and that there were no civilians to be found anywhere. The leaden skies and light drizzle lent further weight to that theory- after all, who would even want to live here?
It was not, he had to remind himself, for the civilians that they were defending this place. The city itself did not matter, and nor did its inhabitants. It was the fleet, the port, and the strategic importance that did matter. That was why the Kirin wanted it, too. It could be a useful staging area for them on this side of the Great Eastern Sea, but more than that, it would deny Equestria the same advantage, and it was now clear that the Kirin viewed themselves as a fair rival for the great power, at least in this part of the world. If their Empress fancied herself as a counterpart to the Sun and Moon, it would be the duty of every sailor and soldier who served the royal sisters to prove her wrong.
Greenwood stopped at the corner of two streets as a wagon rolled by, powered by a puffing steam tractor. He had suddenly realised that he didn't know where he was going, or why, and that he had been wandering aimlessly in the rain, his collar turned up against it, hands plunged into the pockets of his greatcoat. He noticed a tobacconist he recognised, and was able to get his bearings, setting course for the dismal little park he had spotted before, the one with all the dead trees. He found himself sitting upon one of the benches, slumping like a vagrant in the drizzle. What was it that his bunkmate Tracer had said? It looked like the last place ponies would sit before they jumped in front of a train?
It held little appeal, but it seemed as appropriate a place as any to spend a few minutes, to pass the time. If it was grim, why, that was because the whole fucking city was grim. The situation was grim. Here they were, thousands of miles from home, on the very edge of Equestria, the very edge of the world, in the damp and the cold and facing a foe whose capabilities were mostly unknown. One foray had already resulted in casualties to the fleet. More would no doubt follow, and Greenwood knew, as did Admiral Strongbow, that the Northern Fleet did not have the strength needed to break out of the Kirin trap. The blockade being enforced by their heavy battleships and cruisers was designed to keep the Equestrian ships bottled up and unable to influence the course of the war. So far, their plan was working.
The troops which had been landed by the Kirin were another unknown quantity. The Equestrians had never met the Kirin Army in battle before. In fact, beyond a few, mostly apocryphal reports of their fight against various tribes within their own lands, there was little information available. The Kirin Army, like their Navy, kept rough parity with the other major powers in terms of troop numbers, weaponry and artillery, but their tactics, fighting skill and logistics remained a blank in the files of the Equestrians. Only time would tell if they had what it took to achieve their goals.
After ten, or maybe twenty, timeless minutes sat watching the rain patter down upon an already-formed puddle, Greenwood rose from the bench. Nopony else had passed through the park while he had been there. He had been alone with his thoughts. Thoughts of home, of his brother, somewhere out there beyond the cordon that surrounded the city, the ring of steel that would, hopefully, protect Harmony Bay from the predations of the Kirin soldiers. With luck, Celestia willing, he would see his brother again.
Caught by surprise, the 1st Battalion wheeled around as best they could to confront the new threat. Kirin were rushing through the trees, from the direction that their initial attack was expected to come. They had confounded the Equestrians twice within the hour, and their bayonet charge pushed the 1st Battalion back across the rail track to the north. They found shelter among the rocks and scree, firing their rifles down at the Kirin, who used the railway embankment for cover, diving into prone positions and settling their rifles upon the lip of the earthen mound that supported the track as it approached the bridge. At least two sections of Equestrian infantry and some of the Frontier Guards were cut off by the sudden charge, finding themselves surrounded, but Greenshield and his company made it up the bluff, setting up their machine gun upon a boulder and opening up on the Kirin as they sought cover.
Within moments, the Kirin were joined by their fellows from the east, as thy came storming over the bridge, their mortar fire now rapidly re-targeted onto the slope where the 1st Battalion were now stationed. Deadly stone splinters were thrown up from each blast, cutting through flesh. Greenshield kept his position behind his gun crew as they rattled through belts of ammunition, scything down half a dozen Kirin. But the rifle fire from the enemy was accurate too, and casualties were mounting. One of his gun crew, Easy Peeler, went down shouting out in pain, shot through the side. Others were being wounded all around him, some rolling down the slope as they fell, others slumping wordlessly into a crumpled heap. It was everything he had feared combat would be; terrifying, awe-inspiring, dangerous and hellish, with courage on both sides. Several times, Kirin soldiers leaped up from behind the embankment and sprinted forward, hurling grenades and loud cries. Most were stuck down by machine guns, but that did not stop more repeating their brave charge.
It was working, too. Gradually, inch by inch, rock by rock, the Equestrians were being pushed back, their numbers whittled away, any advantage they had in holding the high ground neutralised by the fact that it made them an easier target for the Kirin mortars. Eventually, they were back to the tree line above the railway, low on ammunition and out of options. More Kirin were rushing across the bridge, while others were now firing from the high rocks above the ravine, catching the ponies in the flank and killing several more. Their position untenable, Major Blitz ordered another retreat to save what was left of his battalion. They had no choice; a suicidal charge down the hill might temporarily retrieve the situation, force the Kirin back and secure the end of the bridge, but it would cost them catastrophic losses and leave them unable to fight off the inevitable counterattack from the other end of the span. To stay in place would see them lose more and more soldiers without gaining anything. Falling back, though anathema to Blitz and his fighting spirit, was the only course of action he could take.
His orders were passed around by messenger, ponies scrabbling across the scree to shout commands to each section and machine gun team. Greenshield was given his orders by a very young-looking mare, barely old enough to qualify to put on the uniform in his estimation. It made him, at the tender age of twenty, suddenly feel very old indeed. She was a private, he was a Senior Sergeant, meant to be an example for the younger ones to follow- despite, in his case, being young himself. He hoped he had done that, to the members of his gun crew at least, but he was far from convinced in his own success. After all, they had not warmed to him in the way that all the stories said they should. The bond was more that of a forepony and his labourers in some factory, rather than true comradeship. He was happy, at least, that he had not broken down in tears or turned in terror during this, his first blooding in true combat. That was the minimum he could ask of himself; the minimum that the Princess could ask of any of her soldiers or sailors.
You are a soldier of Equestria, and you shall do your duty, as sure as the Sun will rise and the Moon will glow.
One by one, the sections and companies began to pull back, covering each other as they had done when retreating across the bridge. Greenshield's machine gun section kept up their fire, blazing through more of the long cloth-linked belts of ammunition, until ordered to pull back by Captain Fine Feather. Another machine gun covered them, then they stopped once more and returned the favour until the other gun had pulled back. The steady withdrawal, harried all the way by mortars and rifle fire from below, saved the rest of the battalion from destruction, but cost the Equestrians the bridge, and with it, the rail line and the only way to resupply Harmony Bay from the land. The Kirin had tightened the noose and cut off the final artery for the city. It would be a long, cold, lonely winter for the garrison.
"This is a disaster, Your Highness, an unmitigated disaster!" Prince Blueblood declared despairingly, hammering his fist upon the table for emphasis. The little flags and wooden unit markers representing different army corps and divisions jostled and shook from the impact, for it was a war map of Northwick and Yakyakistan that the table held, at the centre of the palace war room, where the Princess and her advisors planned their response to any attack upon their lands.
"That is overstating things somewhat, Admiral," Celestia replied, though her expression was no less grim than if Blueblood's words had been gospel truth. The Kirin had advanced with disturbing rapidity in the two weeks since they had established a beachhead around the village of Whalebone Beach. They had been very busy indeed, moving troops not just toward Harmony Bay, but also to the west and northwest, into the province of Yakyakistan and in the general direction of its capital, which shared the same name.
Another defeat had been inflicted upon the Equestrians, when the 12th Army Corps had been forced to abandon its hastily prepared defensive positions around the border between the two provinces, letting the Kirin pour through into Yakyakistan. The 45th Infantry Regiment, 1st Battalion included, had been rolled up into the 10th Corps, which had been digging in for the past fortnight in the ominously-named Yakfrost mountain pass that led north to Yakyakistan. To the east, Harmony Bay had been preparing for a siege as best it could, with all available troops from the surrounding towns brought in to support the string of forts that guarded the approaches to the city. The fleet had been sitting idle in the bay, for the most part, with only a few routine patrols being authorised.
Celestia had given Admiral Strongbow direct orders to make use of his fleet in any way he saw fit, except for an open attack upon the Kirin, for she knew from his reports that such a course of action would lead to the fleet's destruction. Strongbow had issued orders for minefields to be laid, a dangerous task given the Kirin's presence outside of the bay. But the fleet minelayers Adventure and Action had proceeded out under cover of night to plant mines in the approaches to the bay. Their risky mission had paid dividends, for the lookouts on Fat Colt Island had reported a large explosion one night in the vicinity of the minefield, and the silhouetted corpse of a mid-sized ship, probably a cruiser, slowly sinking into the sea until the fires were extinguished by the all-quenching waters.
"Your Highness, the Kirin are impeding our ability to resupply the port both by land and sea," Blueblood pointed out. "We must take drastic action. I am sure the garrison at Harmony Bay is ready for a prolonged siege, but I do not know if they can truly resist this attack. How long are they provisioned for? Ammunition? Are they ready for winter?"
"All reasonable questions, Admiral," Celestia nodded. "I am sure General Snow Meadow can tell us more.'
The other white mare present nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. The garrison at Harmony Bay is strong, though perhaps not as strong as we might wish. The city is protected by four forts to its west, arrayed across the width of the peninsula. These forts guard all land access and can be counted on to hold up any enemy, even when caught by surprise. We, however, have had a short time to prepare for the Kirin attack, and the defensive positions have been steadily improved over the past few years whenever funding was available."
"At the expense of the coastal defences," Blueblood complained. There was always much infighting over funds for the army and navy, and more than once money for some important project had found itself waylaid and diverted into the coffers of the other service, much to the chagrin of the originally intended recipients.
"Perhaps, but I imagine that your sailors are rather glad of them at the moment," the Army's Chief of Staff retorted before continuing. "The forts consist of strong concrete structures sunk partially into the ground, reinforced with earth, brick and steel where appropriate. Each one has an artillery compliment, machine guns, and its own garrison. In between each fort are numerous smaller defensive positions. Strongpoints, bunkers, trenches, minefields. Troops occupy all of these points."
"Can they hold?" Celestia questioned bluntly. "When the Kirin come, can they hold?"
"Yes, Your Highness. They can hold," Snow Meadow nodded assuredly. "The only question is for how long, and to that I do not have an answer. They are well-provisioned, both with food and ammunition, plus they have the naval reserves to fall back on if needed, and..."
"The army is not going to help itself to our supplies, General!" Blueblood blurted out angrily.
"Why not? The fleet is hardly using them at a prodigious rate," Snow Meadow retorted, prompting Celestia to intervene.
"Enough. If the army need the reserve supplies, they will have them. If the navy need them, they shall have them. It is as simple as that. Understood?" Both officers nodded.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"How long do you estimate the city will be able to hold out?" the Princess asked Snow Meadow.
"Months, Your Highness," she replied. "A minimum of three, perhaps six or more, if it is merely an issue of supply. They have enough for a prolonged siege. The main issue then becomes whether they can hold out against the Kirin attack."
"What kind of attack are we expecting?" Celestia asked, gesturing to the map, where half a dozen numbered wooden blocks depicted the Kirin Corps which had been positively identified- the 1st Army Corps, 2nd Army Corps, 1st Shock Army and the 7th Mixed, plus two cavalry units whose true size was unknown but estimated to be of regimental strength.
"It will be difficult for the Kirin to bring up their heavy guns, but I am sure they are doing everything in their power to achieve that goal even as we speak," Snow Meadow explained. "The forts themselves can withstand bombardment, but they can crack under the right pressure. If they can move siege artillery into range then they will be able to strike the forts with little opposition. Beyond that we expect direct infantry assaults upon the forts, possible flanking landings or diversionary attacks elsewhere on the peninsula, and the possibility of airship bombing, both of the defensive lines and potentially of the city."
"Surely they would not bomb civilians," Blueblood frowned, for attacking the civilian populace directly had been considered the tactic of despots and war criminals for at least a century.
"That depends how desperate they are to take the port," Snow Meadow replied. "Given that they launched their attack not at the end, but at the beginning of winter, I can only draw one of two conclusions. They are either so confident in their fighting prowess, or of our incompetence, that they believe they can capture Harmony Bay and the rest of Northwick within a matter of days before the real cold weather sets in, or that they are so confident in their own abilities that they think they can successfully fight through the winter, and believe the cold will impede our ability to resist them. Either way, it seems they wished conditions to be as favourable to themselves and as unfavourable to us as possible, hence the sudden and surprise nature of the attack and its unusual seasonality."
Celestia nodded. Most military campaigns were launched in spring or early summer, to give armies as long as possible to fight in good conditions, before the ravages of winter set in. Fighting a land war in the winter was difficult at best, and treacherous at worst, especially in somewhere as remote as Northwick. The cold could chill a pony to the bone, freeze them to death or induce terrible frostbite. The working parts of guns and motor engines could freeze solid- in particularly cold weather, even the antifreeze designed to thaw them out could succumb to the same effect- and gun oil and even gasoline could become gel-like and useless. The ground could be impassable thanks to snow or the thick, cloying winter mud caused when rain washed away the snow and turned the ground to a sucking mass that stuck to boots, trousers, coats, guns, wheels and anything else that it touched.
Nobody would willingly choose to fight in such potentially turbulent conditions unless they were confident in the extreme. Even the hardy Yaks of old would cease their campaigning against ponies or rival tribes when the grip of winter found them. So what made the Kirin so sure they could succeed? Overconfidence? Bravado? Good equipment? A combination? None could say for sure.
"How long until we can assemble enough forces for a counterattack to drive them from the peninsula?" Celestia asked, "We must push them out of our lands."
"Not for some time, Your Highness," Snow Meadow lamented. "Eastern Command is on the defensive everywhere. The Kirin are pushing forward, both toward Fair Valley and Yakyakistan, and we are having to adjust to counter those pushes. If we can throw back their offensive at both of these points then we might be able to consider limited counter-offensives. But it will take weeks to build up enough forces on the Equestrian border with Yakyakistan. They will have to be mostly moved by rail from elsewhere. I would estimate at least six weeks before we are ready for anything more than extremely limited and localised counter-moves. A major offensive against the Kirin? Perhaps two or three months, weather-dependent, of course."
"Two or three months?" Blueblood exploded. "Your Highness, if I may. There is more than one way to skin a Manticore, as they say. The Kirin are entirely dependent upon their supply lines if they wish to continue this offensive. Those supply lines cross the Great Eastern Sea."
"Correct. But the Northern Fleet is bottled up," Celestia reminded him.
"Yes, Your Highness. but the Home Fleet is not," he announced proudly.
"The home fleet is ten thousand miles away," Snow Meadow pointed out quickly. "It would take your ships as long to reach the area as it would for my soldiers."
"The difference being, General, that if my ships can reach the area first, your soldiers will find they have little to do once they arrive except to mop up dispirited Kirin, with no ammunition in their rifles and no food in their bellies," Blueblood boasted. "If we can cut their supply lines, then they cannot fight. They will slowly wither upon the vine."
"And what of the Equatorial Fleet, Admiral?" Celestia turned to him. "They are half as far from Northwick as your ships. Why do we not send them?"
"Because they are ill-equipped to meet such a challenge, Your Highness," Blueblood explained. "They are an anti-pirate fleet for the most part. Destroyers, corvettes, light cruisers. They have but a few capital ships, nothing to match the Kirin in number or firepower. The Overseas Fleet is even more distant than we are. Your Highness, I propose that the Home Fleet sail for Harmony Bay. As we engage the Kirin fleet, the Northern Fleet can sally forth from the harbour to support us and strike the enemy in the rear. Once the Kirin fleet is destroyed, has surrendered, or is in disarray, then they will no longer be able to protect their own supply lines, nor to stop our own supply transports through to Harmony Bay. Once that is done, it is only a matter of time before the war is won."
"Ambitious, Admiral," Snow Meadow nodded. "But as I said, it will still take your ships weeks to arrive. The war may already be lost by that time."
"Then it is upon the shoulders of your soldiers to make sure that it is not," Blueblood answered, one hand indignantly and flamboyantly upon his hip. "You said they can hold out. If they hold out, then my fleet will come to their aid. With your permission, Your Highness, of course," he added, almost as an afterthought, as though his grand war strategy had been something playing out inside his own head.
"Is your fleet ready for such a journey?" Celestia questioned him.
"No fleet is ready for such a journey," Snow Meadow interrupted before Blueblood could respond. "The Home Fleet least of all, I would argue. We have all heard the rumours..."
"The rumours. Pah!" Blueblood scoffed. "If you wish to hear rumours, there are plenty to go around regarding the army. Is it true that during the last Griffon War, the only thing the army charged was the interest on the money it lent to the locals to rebuild their militia?"
"Enough bickering," Celestia snapped, her unusually harsh tone drawing the attentions and the gazes of both ponies. "This will accomplish nothing. Admiral, I will ask again. Is your fleet ready for such a journey?"
"Not at this very moment, Your Highness, but we can prepare. I can order preparations to be commenced at once," he assured her.
"And is your fleet capable of such a journey? Not only completing it, but engaging the Kirin at the end of it, and overcoming them?" she asked.
"I believe it is, Your Highness," Blueblood nodded. "We can make haste to Harmony Bay. It will be a simple voyage, though a long one, but we shall make it swiftly and efficiently."
"Very well then, Admiral," Celestia faced him. "Prepare your fleet. Whatever supplies and personnel you need, take them on my authority. I will arrange for everything necessary to be done to facilitate your passage to Harmony Bay."
"Yes, Your Highness!" Blueblood clicked his heels and saluted smartly before turning and departing the war room.
"Do you believe him, Your Highness?" Snow Meadow asked. "Can they make it?"
"I do not know the answer to that question, General," Celestia replied. "All we can do is to hope, for I see no alternative."
The whooping whistles of the ships out in the harbour told Greenwood that something was amiss. He was in town again; not exactly his favourite place in the world, but there was nowhere else to go. The Kirin were closing the ring ever tighter out beyond the city's defensive line. The forts were being prepped for a long siege, with ammunition crates being moved every day from stockpiles in the city. Entire warehouses had been emptied by the garrison to make sure each fort could be self-sufficient for weeks on end if the enemy came knocking.
The past two weeks had been surprisingly quiet. Other than a couple of false alarms and routine patrols, the Kirin fleet had kept itself out of sight and mostly out of mind, staying well out beyond the range of the coastal guns, but close enough to control the waterways in and out. One bright spot had come a week ago when a freighter, wallowing in the heavy swell, had somehow contrived to ease its way through the blockade without a care in the world- her radio was out of action and she had received no word on the outbreak of war since leaving the southwestern port of Pebblesands some three weeks earlier. The lumbering cargo vessel had proceeded on its stately journey and the Kirin had either not noticed it or watched in amazement as it sailed right through their midst, flashing friendly greetings to what it presumed was the Northern Fleet out on maneouvers. It had brought welcome supplies of grain to bolster the stockpiles in the city, as well as some diesel fuel and oil, useful for powering generators and lighting rigs for the dock-workers and engineers who were working on repairing the fleet.
The little park he was in now held a strange, empty charm for him. It was as dead as ever- more so now, given how much colder it had turned just in the last week- but nobody ever seemed to go there, except for a few birds that he could not identify, who perched in the tops of the barren trees and warbled out an attractive, high-pitched tune. It was, he had decided, about the only thing about Harmony Bay that was attractive.
Every time he had been off duty and on shore leave, he had found himself in the park, sometimes just to sit and think, sometimes to while away the minutes before the bar or brothel opened for the evening. For his sins he had indulged in both vices several times since the Defiant had arrived in the port. He was not alone; he had seen officers from other ships in the company of whores, including at least one mare and one stallion who wore the gold rings of a captain upon their sleeves. He did not know whether that made it better or worse.
Leaving the park in the half-light of the early evening, or more accurately the mid-afternoon- it got dark early in this part of the world- Greenwood headed back down to the harbour. The sirens had not sounded to alert the whole city of an attack, but there was definitely something going on out there. He deemed it prudent to get back to the Defiant just in case. Searchlights were criss-crossing the outer bay, and as he walked he heard the roar of a distant heavy gun- the coastal batteries? But what were they firing at?
The Defiant was on alert, but not exactly thrumming with activity. They were in port, tied up to the pier, and there was not much they could do. It would take them some time to cast off and make ready for sea, and if the enemy were coming, it would likely be too late for them to take any effective action. A portion of the fleet was kept at full readiness at all times, including some of the capital ships, The coastal guns were ready to fire at a moment's notice, and it sounded like that moment had arrived.
Greenwood hurried to the bridge. "Reporting for duty, sir!" he informed Captain Oakheart.
"Thank you Mister Greenwood. We're standing by for now," Oakheart replied, at his customary place in his captain's chair. "Aft lookout, if you please. Something is going on out there and I'd rather like to know what."
"Aye sir." Greenwood left the bridge and made his way toward the stern, climbing to the rear observation platform just astern of the second funnel. It was a small place, windswept when out at sea and very lonely for the lookouts posted there, but it gave a clear view out over the fantail and into the waters of the bay beyond. A mare was already there, straining her eyes through binoculars against the gloom. One of the capital ships out in the roadstead had fired a pair of starshells, brilliant burning magnesium candles that hung in the sky, slowly descending and burning to illuminate the land, or sea, below. They revealed dark shapes, masses on the horizon at the harbour mouth, where the shore batteries were booming. Greenwood turned to the mouth of the brass speaking tube.
"Aft lookout to bridge."
"Go ahead, Mister Greenwood."
"I count five unidentified ships approaching the harbour mouth, illuminated by starshell, sir," he informed Oakheart.
"And the shore batteries are engaging them?" the captain asked.
"Aye sir, it looks like it," Greenwood replied.
"Keep monitoring the situation. I am ordering our boilers warmed up in case we have to move," Oakheart responded. "Let me know if anything changes."
"Aye, captain." Greenwood took position at the railing beside the lookout. The bay was lit by both the descending starshells and the beams of a score of searchlights, many of which were now focusing in on the incoming ships. Greenwood took the binoculars from the mare to see if he could identify any pertinent details to relay to the captain. He scanned over the dark blobs, running silent with all their lights out, for what little good it had done them. It had, at least, enabled them to reach the wide expanse of the outer bay, in between the headland and Fat Colt Island, but now they were coming under fire not just from the shore batteries, but also from the patrol ships and even some of the anchored capital ships, whose fore-turrets were aligned with the targets. Greenwood could see plumes of water rising around them.
Their squat, bulbous designs, wide hulls and fat smokestacks told him they were merchantponies, just freighters. So what were they doing? Was it a case of mistaken identity? Had more friendly cargo vessels made it through the Kirin's ring of steel? Were they firing at their own?
"Aft lookout to bridge."
"Go ahead."
"Targets appear to be freighters, sir. Coming under fire from the fleet now. They're approaching the outer roadstead."
"Understood...friend, neutral or foe? Any positive identification?" Oakheart demanded.
"No sir. No ensigns or signal pennants that I can see," Greenwood informed him. "I don't recognise the class. Could be Kirin."
"Very well. Keep me informed," Oakheart signed off. Several capital ships were firing now, the bright, harsh flashes of their guns adding to the glare of artificial light that now pooled above the waters of the bay. The freighters were right in the crosshairs of the fleet, but that hardly seemed to perturb them. They were in formation, each about a hundred yards apart. No merchant ships travelled like that, even in wartime. Most convoys ran in widely separated columns, in line astern and with escorts along each flank to watch for submarines and torpedo boats. There was something most peculiar about these vessels and their single-minded drive into the harbour. Fire ships, perhaps, or the modern equivalent? In the days of sail, obsolete galleons or lumbering coastal freighters were converted into blazing torches by liberal application of oil and naked flame, and sent into an enemy harbour with the intention of wreaking havoc on the wood-and-canvas fleets of the day. Bomb ships were a later update to the concept, filled with gunpowder and detonated in the midst of a harbour. Could this be a similar ploy, freighters loaded with high explosives to try and wreck the port facilities, destroying piers and dry docks and warehouses?
The lead ship was struck dead on by at least two heavy shells from one of the battleships. She swung out of line, smoke billowing from a gash on the side of her superstructure, the bridge crew dead or stunned. Slowly, the other ships began to follow suit, making the turn, following the example of their leader as more shells showered their decks with spray and splinters. Greenwood watched the slow-motion ballet with confusion. Why were the other ships turning? None of them had been hit, so far as he could tell. They were still in control of their steering, unless they had managed to foul the anti-submarine nets with their props somehow. But all at once? No, they were turning because the leader was turning.
More shells struck the lead ship and she faltered, floundering in the outer bay, just before the approaches narrowed, then opened out again into the roadstead where the capital ships were moored. Suddenly, Greenwood could see exactly what they were doing, and it was proven a moment later. A series of muffled booms rocked the bay, each ship shuddering with a series of internal explosions- all except the leader.
"Aft lookout to bridge."
"Go ahead, Mister Greenwood."
"Sir, they're blockships. I think they've misjudged it though. Looks like they've set their charges off prematurely."
"Understood, Mister Greenwood. Thank you. Keep watch."
"Aye sir." Greenwood looked on. The Kirin freighters had been sent in with one single purpose in mind- blocking the harbour mouth at its narrowest point. To that end, they had been outfitted with scuttling charges, something not often fitted to civilian vessels, explosives at key points which, when detonated, would cause irreparable damage to their hulls and sink them rapidly. Most likely their holds were filled with concrete or stone to add extra weight and make them extremely difficult to remove by salvage ships or tugs.
The spot at which the outer bay narrowed to a much tighter passage, before opening out again into the wide expanse of the roadstead, was the ideal point for such an attempt. That was where they had been driving for, but the lead ship had been struck by gunfire at just the right moment for the defenders. The ships had evidently been following a pre-made plan, to turn together with their leader, covering as much of the narrows as possible with their bulk, then scuttling themselves in unison. When the leader had turned, her bridge crew dead or steering damaged, the others had followed, and had detonated their charges prematurely as a result, while they were still in the outer bay. Whether they were blinded by the searchlights and unable to ascertain their true position, or whether their orders had been particularly strict, the result was the same. Greenwood could see four of the ships slowly sinking, but they were in deeper water and a wider section of the bay. Their mission would not succeed. They might limit approach routes and pose a hazard to navigation, but they would not block the harbour entrance as their Admiral had clearly hoped.
The lead ship, its charges undetonated, sailed on past two of its foundering brethren before beaching herself on the shores of Fat Colt Island with a grinding crunch, hull scraped clean of its anti-fouling paint by the sharp rocks. Her propellers continued to churn up the water astern of her quite ineffectually, for she was well and truly stuck fast. After a few minutes they stopped, and the party of soldiers approaching her from shore were able to take three Kirin sailors into their custody. Greenwood watched them through his binoculars. They looked smart, proud even, as they clambered down a rope ladder, carefully and slowly so as not to get themselves shot by the nervous soldiers. It was not the first time he had seen the Kirin, but it was, he imagined, the first time the members of the garrison had. He could imagine their fear; would the ship blow up? Were the Kirin sailors cut-throat desperadoes who would fight to the death with hidden grenades or knives or pistols?
In the end, they surrendered without a fight. As their companion ships sank into the bay behind them, the sailors were marched off into captivity. How long they would remain in Equestrian custody, and whether they would be freed by their own victorious invading army, remained to be seen.
Harmony Bay lay under a blanket of rain, dampening spirits as well as the campfires of the defenders in their trenches and laagers. The garrison was well-trained and decently led, with plenty of ammunition and food to last months. The city could hold out- the only question was, could it hold out long enough for help to arrive?
Nopony knew how well the Kirin would fare against the heavily fortified outer perimeter of the city's defences. The soldiers were not even confident that they could successfully attack the city themselves, but the Kirin were an unknown quantity. Perhaps they had been trained to excel in siege warfare. Perhaps they had special equipment, special training, special weapons. Maybe there was some fundamental flaw in the defences which had been overlooked, something that the budget cuts might have caused. Or maybe the city would shrug off the attacks and hurl the invaders back into the sea from whence they came.
That seemed unlikely. All a citizen had to do was look out into the harbour to see why. The Northern Fleet was still stationary, and had been since its ultimately pointless foray against the Kirin blockade. It was demoralising, both for the civilians and the soldiers who were preparing to fight and die to save the city. The Navy, sitting there, unmoving, doing nothing to contribute to the safety of Harmony Bay. Never mind that another attack on the Kirin fleet might well see the Northern Fleet rendered utterly impotent, with thousands of sailors dying just to see the city opened up without the Kirin Army even needing to fire a shot in anger against its defences. Everything was now part of a great strategic dance; if the fleet remained, the Kirin Navy could not simply sail in and take control. If the forts remained, the Kirin Army would be prevented from doing the same. The Kirin Navy could not accurately fire upon the ships, for they could not get line of sight with the Northern Fleet without sailing into the harbour under the coastal guns. But if the Kirin Army could push far enough forward to gain control of some of the hills that surrounded the city, and could place their artillery observers upon them, they would be able to call down fire unencumbered by any protection that the geography may have offered Admiral Strongbow's vessels.
That lack of direct observation, however, did not prevent the Kirin Navy from firing; merely from firing accurately enough to hit the ships of the Northern Fleet. But there were other tempting targets.
Greenwood was on shore leave when it first happened. A most ignominious place to be found, for he was in the whorehouse, getting a good riding from a particularly domineering plum-purple earth pony mare who was more than happy to first remove his money, then his trousers, from his possession, though he would only get one of the two back at the end of the session. All of a sudden, the whole room shook, wooden floors and walls creaking most unexpectedly.
"Told you I'd make the earth move for you, didn't I honey?" the whore smiled. Greenwood didn't much like the sound of whatever it was that had shaken the building, but he wasn't going to waste his money by leaving unfulfilled, though the second bang and rumble came only moments after he had satisfied himself.
"Keep the noise down!" the whore barked, banging on the wall to the next room.
"I don't think that's coming from next door..." Greenwood grunted. "Get off me, I have to get up." She complied and removed herself from atop him.
"You'll have to give yourself a few minutes if you want to get it up again, honey," she remarked with a smirk that was quickly wiped from her face when the room's window suddenly blew in. She squealed and rolled aside, tumbling from the bed with a thud. Greenwood scrambled to his feet and shot to the window, peering out, naked and alarmed.
"Shit...son of a bitch...!" he swore, grasping desperately for his clothes. Oh, for one carefree lay...!
"What was that? What's going on?" the prostitute asked him from the floor of her room, her tight corset a wholly inadequate protection against the kind of predations that were being unleashed upon the city.
"We're being shelled," Greenwood shouted. "Get downstairs, the basement if there is one. Get the other girls down there too if you can."
"O-ok...!" she squeaked nervously, grabbing at her undergarments and pulling them on before scurrying from the room. Greenwood peered out across the rooftops of Harmony Bay. It was already getting dark thanks to the clouds and rain, though it was only just past noon. The squall driving in was bathing the city in an awful grey pall, punctuated only by the burning sulfurous orbs of the streetside gas lamps and the rather more homely lights of the houses. Even the brightly-lit whorehouse had seemed a little more subdued under such conditions than it usually did.
Greenwood rushed downstairs once he was fully dressed, passing half-naked mares and stallions trying to button up their jackets and don their peaked officers' hats. The Defiant would be waiting for him in the harbour, and he had to report to Captain Oakheart. Could the Kirin fleet be trying to push into the harbour? Had the city defences failed, and the Kirin Army were suddenly upon them?
Outside, the street was empty save for sailors and labourers rushing to and fro, Yaks with their big fur-lined coats and burly pony stevedores trying to find safe shelter in a protected basement or public bunker. There were a few of those, designed for protection against airship raids or events just such as this. Greenwood set course for the harbour, but he had only made it a few hundred yards when a shrieking roar filled his ears, followed by a loud explosion not far away. He flung himself to the ground and felt himself being dusted with debris from the blast. When he rose again he could see a column of smoke rising from the rear yard of one of the nearby workshops. That only held his attentions for a few moments before another shell landed about a hundred yards down the street ahead of him, churning up the cobbles and casting aside a pair of unfortunate Yaks like two ragdolls.
The shells, he could determine from the sound and angle, were coming not from the landward side of town, but out to sea, beyond Fat Colt Island, possibly. That meant that unless the Kirin had somehow managed to land artillery units somewhere along the forbidding sea-crags, the firing was coming from their navy, who seemed to be indiscriminately shelling the town. Greenwood dropped to the wet ground again as another shell whizzed in and burst nearby, annihilating the top two floors of a store and tossing debris all across the rooftops nearby.
"Can't hit us so you're going after the civilians, eh? Sick animals!" he raged to the silent grey sky, in the absence of anything more tangible to direct his fury against. He scrambled to his feet again, uniform soaked through both from the rain and the slick cobbles he had just been lying on. The shelling was blind and deadly, for the Kirin gunners could not see what they were firing at, merely aiming at the general coordinates of the city and not caring what, or whom, they hit. It was a tactic of terror, not of war, and it enraged Greenwood. The Kirin, though foreign to him, were at least understood to be a civilised race with a concept of honour. Their navy seemed not to operate under the same principles.
The shells coming in were heavy, judging by the sound they made passing overhead, like ripping canvas or a speeding locomotive tearing through the leaden skies. The main batteries of a capital ship, ten or twelve inches in muzzle diameter, firing rounds as heavy as a cow. They were meant to pulverise another ship, pound its guns and crew into pulp, shatter its armour. Not for demolishing houses and slaughtering innocent civilians. Greenwood scrambled onward down the street as another shell roared in, crushing half of a store with its explosive payload.
He could see the Defiant ahead. Not far to go to reach it, but with the Kirin firing blind and indiscriminately, there was no guarantee the destroyer would mean safety. A shell could find an actual military target and kill him there just as easily as it could kill him in the street, but at least he would be at his post. An honourable death it would be. Killed in action, it would read on the certificate, and on the telegram sent home to his father. He wondered what his father was doing right now; overseeing the gardeners as they made sure the flowerbeds were ready for winter, perhaps. The chill came much later down there than it did up here in the sun-forsaken northlands. He thought of his brother. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he alive? Was he cold? Was he scared?
"Incoming!"
"Heads down!" Greenshield shouted, ducking below the parapet as shells began raining down around them. The Kirin assault had begun with a heavy bombardment of the forward Equestrian positions at the mouth of the valley, pummelling the chapel and its protective earthworks, bringing down part of the steeple and killing the spotters who had been reporting minute-by-minute on the approach of the Kirin infantry, who were massing out of sight of the Equestrians in the frontline, just over a low ridge and a string of smaller hillocks.
The rear Equestrian positions deeper in the valley had been spared the initial barrage, which had been concentrated on the frontlines. Greenshield had been able to watch from the heights above the tunnel as shell after shell had smashed into the chapel's trenches and the surrounding land, blowing holes in the earth and, no doubt, killing many ponies. Only once the assault itself actually began did the Kirin turn their artillery fire on the Equestrian's rear, to prevent reinforcements moving up easily without taking casualties. The enemy had not bothered with an excessively long preparatory bombardment; just long enough to let the defenders know they were coming, followed by a rapidly-launched assault. Now they were shelling the rear positions to cover their advance.
Shells whistled in and smashed into the ridge as Greenshield ducked low in the trench, the rest of his machine-gun section doing the same. Snow and rock fragments fell like a volcanic ashfall all around them as the explosions churned up the earth and clawed at the defences like a wild beast. The mortar fire at Calico Bridge had been one thing, but this was quite another. The Kirin had heavy howitzers and guns in place, hurling their high-explosive shells for miles, guided by unseen observers, linked to the batteries by field telephone, or perhaps radio. Up here in the mountains, reception was excellent, the radio net crystal clear, but the radios themselves were expensive, vulnerable to damage, and could be jammed or otherwise interfered with, as had been the case in Harmony Bay- though nopony yet had figured out the cause of the interference which had sent the Defiant home on its vital mission to relay the news of the impending attack.
Greenshield's position was linked by field telephone to the fortress in their rear, and with the frontline. Located in Major Blitz's dugout, the telephone performed the same function as a civilian device would have done in the comfort of a drawing room or lounge, but was of a rather more rugged construction, designed to withstand the rigours of army life. Field phones were a vital link in the communications chain, connecting positions within defensive lines or linking artillery batteries to their observers, but despite their ruggedness, the wires that had to be run between each position to feed the signals were vulnerable to shellfire unless buried, something that was difficult to do in the rocky terrain of the mountains.
None of that mattered to him at the moment, for all he could think of was death. With shells pounding the ground everywhere, the whole world seemed to have become a cacophony, a deadly symphony of unending noise and violent shaking, heaving the earth beneath his feet as the bombardment continued. He felt certain it must cause a landslide, an avalanche, if it wasn't already- for how could the mountains themselves withstand such fury?
The bombardment swept across the trenches in a wide curve of red, leaping flame, hurling columns of dust and smoke into the clear, eggshell-blue sky. Ponies sank lower into their funk-holes and clung desperately to the solid earth, like a drowning sailor clinging to any piece of driftwood or debris he could find after a shipwreck. It was their only salvation; that and prayer to Celestia that she would deliver them from the torment of the hellish pounding that the Kirin were unleashing on them. It seemed that they had reserved their heaviest firepower for the rear lines, or perhaps that was just an illusion created by the ceaseless sound and movement. In lulls between the shelling he could hear ponies moaning and whimpering. He assumed it came from others, but perhaps it was himself; he could scarcely hear himself think, nor even string two cohesive words together in his mind. His head was numb, the concussive waves from each explosion shivering through his brain like an earthquake. His helmet did nothing to drown out the noise, nor cushion the blow.
Snow trickled down upon him from the lip of the trench, dirt from leaking sandbags, shattered fragments of rock thrown up by the explosions. A glance at his watch might tell him how long this hell had been going on, but he found it a physical effort just to roll up his sleeve slightly and lower his eyes to look. He felt like a plague victim, drained of all of his energy, though he had spent most of the morning sitting in the trench doing very little. The altitude did not help- though it was nowhere near as high as the truly vertiginous peaks to be found elsewhere in Equestria, the Yakfrost Pass was high enough to create a slight oxygen deficit in every pony who found themselves there. The only benefit to that would be that it would be even worse for the Kirin, slogging uphill with burning legs, pounding hearts and gasping lungs, staggering under the weight of their packs and guns and helmets.
Glancing down the trench, Greenshield could see Major Blitz in his dugout, trying to speak into the field phone over the endless roar of the bombardment. The Major had one hand cupped over his mouth and the other over his ear, holding the handset and trying to make himself understood. He hardly seemed bothered by the shelling at all; indeed, but for his uniform, he might have been trying to make a collect call on the platform of a busy station or the lobby of a crowded theatre. The faces of the other ponies cowering in the trench painted a picture of misery. Fear, physical pain, mental torture. Nothing good could come of war.
Yet war it was, and war never ended until the politicians decreed it. The Kirin were certainly showing no signs of backing down. Their rapid assault had seen them sweep through the battered trenches around the chapel, before launching themselves upon the small farmstead that was their next target, in the shadow of the hills. The civilian inhabitants had long since been cleared out, and the farm was occupied only by soldiers, who gave a good account of themselves against the charging horde before being forced to pull back through sheer weight of numbers. Desultory artillery fire supported their retreat from the high hills, but most of the Equestrian guns were being silenced by accurate Kirin shelling that kept their crews under cover. Only the turreted guns of the protected positions could freely engage, and they did so, lobbing shells down onto the Kirin and blowing holes in their ranks, but failing to stop them pressing forward.
With renewed energy, supported by additional troops from the reserve, the Kirin advanced upon the far more forbidding obstacles that lay in their path. The fortified tunnel and the defences of the first ridge, complete with the sunken bunker complex atop its peak, presented a challenge unlike a simple piece of flat ground. A charge would soon run out of steam if its component soldiers could not keep up with the physical demands, which was why fresh troops had been moved into the attack. The Kirin waited in the lee of the boulders and slopes, out of sight of the defenders and protected from shellfire, while they were reinforced. The barrage of the Equestrian lines ceased all at once, and a sudden silence reigned.
Then, they charged. With a cry and the sounding of trumpets and trench whistles, the Kirin surged forward. Machine guns sprang into action in a dozen places, peppering the ridge with gunfire, supporting the advance, while mortars set up behind rocks and in shell craters began to replace the action of the heavy artillery, launching bombs in elegant arcs to strike the pony lines as the Kirin pushed up the slopes.
The defenders had to shake themselves from their artillery-induced stupor. Greenshield slowly shook his head, trying to dispel the fog that seemed to have enveloped him. It was not too long ago- perhaps a century or so- since cannons had fired solid shot and nothing else. Even fifty years ago, after high-explosive rounds had been invented, their potential was limited by the technology- poor range, poor accuracy. But the development of artillery had been most rapid of all in the past four decades, pushing from smoothbore guns designed to cut through a packed infantry formation to the rifled, highly accurate, highly powerful models that the Kirin were deploying, and that the Equestrians had within their own ranks. A multitude of different types of ammunition had been produced, the guns were acquiring longer ranges and higher calibres all the time, and that was in response to the changing tactics of the infantry. Gone were the ranks who stood in a line for volley fire against a similarly-arrayed enemy, and in had come small-unit tactics, the use of cover, close fire support from artillery, individual aimed fire, and defence in depth. The modern military world was a far cry from the single-shot, muzzle loaded muskets that Greenshield's great grandfather had fought with. Most soldiers now had five or ten-round bolt-action rifles, but there was also the self-loading rifle, the submachine gun, and perhaps most importantly of all, the heavy machine gun.
"Stand to!" Greenshield shouted, managing to rouse himself, and standing, gripping his rifle firmly. "Stand to!"
The gun crew leaped to it, suddenly startled into action by his shouts, pulled from their shellshocked fug. The gun was undamaged by the bombardment, but dirt and snow had to be cleared away from it. Easy Peeler took hold of the ammunition belt, while Acorn Hope grasped the handles, racked the bolt, and prepared to fire. The Kirin had a literal mountain to climb to take the ridge; some drove straight for the tunnel, which was heavily fortified with wire, sandbagged emplacements, machine guns and field guns firing over open sights. Trenches were dug in around it and over the top, which was where Greenshield was, on the ridgeline directly over the tunnel. Other, more adventurous Kirin were starting the long slog up to the high ridge to their left, where the turreted artillery was firing down on them.
Hold fire...wait until you see the whites of their eyes!" Greenshield urged his gunner. Captain Fine Feather moved along the line, encouraging the ponies of her company to stand firm in the face of the enemy. The Kirin were coming, and they would be ready for them.
As the Kirin crossed the relatively flat ground of the dirt track, the machine guns opened fire. With little cover, the first companies out were cut down with disturbing ease by the fire from in front of the tunnel. Snipers perched high up in the rocks and cliffside picked off the Kirin officers in their dark uniforms that marked them out from the khaki of the rank-and-file infantry. Other units were much luckier, finding plentiful cover among the boulders and natural landforms. The ridge was bulbous and bulging, rising toward the high ground where the turret and bunker complex sat, and there were innumerable folds, draws and depressions that could conceal and protect advancing soldiers.
Greenshield peered out carefully as Acorn Hope readied the gun, standing by to fire as soon as the Kirin lunged forward onto the ridge ahead of them. He could see little, but hear plenty of gunfire from down below, as the defenders around the tunnel mouth opened up with rifle and shell. A few mortar rounds landed nearby, but they seemed of little consequence after the heavy bombardment from artillery they had just undergone. A glance to his left and right revealed the trench's parapet lined with rifle barrels, most with bayonets already fixed, despite no order to do so being given; such was the Equestrian way. Ponies were ready to fight, despite the battering they had just taken. He had no idea of casualties incurred by the bombardment, but there had not been any in his immediate vicinity, at least. Now, however, they had to face down the same vicious assault which had burst through the first two lines of defence.
The Kirin swept forward, driving up toward the ridge on both flanks, attacking the tunnel and also trying to scale the heights to take out the bunkers. It was hard, hot work, despite the snow and the crisp winter chill in the air. Once the Kirin reached the lip of the ridge, where they were out of sight and in defilade from the defenders' machine guns, they rested, for to press on blindly would see them, exhausted, trying to cross the open ground into the teeth of the pony guns. They needed their muscles not to be burning from the climb.
Well aware of the potential for defilade, the Equestrians had constructed several sap trenches on the higher ground which protruded from the main line. These offered a spot for marksponies and a machine gun to sweep the front of the ridgeline, to the dismay of the Kirin soldiers who thought they were safe. At least a dozen went tumbling down the hill before they figured out what was happening and managed to get some rifle fire on the flanking positions. Down below, the tunnel entrance was under siege, with several companies of Kirin desperately pressing forward, using every scrap of cover possible, and creating their own, with hurled smoke grenades that burst into life, obscuring the vision of the gunners. Some of their squads carried light machine guns, hefty devices with flat, drum-shaped magazines for one strong Kirin to carry, which they set up on bipods in clefts in the rocks, supporting the rest of their unit as they moved in.
All at once, smoke popped along the ridgeline, some from thrown grenades, some from smoke rounds fired by the Kirin mortar teams. This was it. Here they come. There was a loud and building roar from beyond the smoke, accompanied by a round of angry chants, like a sports crowd heckling their opponent. Shrill trench whistles followed, and then the roar burst like a summer storm.
"Open fire!" Greenshield shouted. Acorn swung the gun around in the direction his sergeant was pointing, and opened fire. Acorn let loose with a quick burst to test the gun before holding down the trigger and then hosing down the billowing smoke clouds as Easy Peeler fed him ammunition. Other machine guns along the line joined in the chorus, and suddenly the Kirin were upon them.
The Kirin emerged from the smoke not as their normal selves, but as demons, shrouded in flame and smoke, eyes ablaze with dark fury. The firing from the Equestrian lines, initially a hurricane, suddenly slackened as ponies stared in dismay. What was this? The Kirin no longer looked like Kirin, but more like Changelings, with jet-black bodies beneath their khaki uniforms. Gone was their individuality, the vibrant manes and coats, replaced instead by something straight from a nightmare.
"Don't stop, don't think, just shoot!" Major Blitz could be heard yelling. Acorn Hope obliged, working the machine gun mechanically along the ranks of advancing demons. Rifle fire crackled from both sides. Many of the Kirin assault troops were armed with submachine guns, and they swept the trench parapet with gunfire as they charged. Their short-barrelled, side-loaded weapons sprayed bullets at a scary rate, and even more disconcertingly, the Kirin had bayonets fitted to them, stubby daggers attached to the underside of the barrel. The officers had their swords drawn and pistols in hand, while the rest of the Kirin carried their ten-round rifle, with a much more substantial bayonet affixed.
Though the ponies had been startled and rattled, their firing was accurate, and the Kirin's terrifying appearance did not give them much extra protection from gunfire. They stumbled, fell, screamed in rage and in anguish as they died, but the smoke and the shock had done their work, and within moments the Kirin had covered the bare ground and were upon the trenches.
"Gentlecolts, prepare to defend yourselves!" Major Blitz shouted, his hefty semi-automatic pistol and sabre in hand. "Fix bayonets! Send these bastards to Tartarus!" Greenshield gripped his rifle, his bayonet already fixed and ready. If the machine guns couldn't stop them, what chance did they have in close combat against these devils?
The Kirin leaped into the trench, some being cut down immediately. With feral roars, they set about their prey, swinging and spinning and stabbing. One Kirin loosed his submachine gun and cleared out an entire section of trench, killing eight ponies before being put down by several rifle rounds. In another section, a Kirin smashed in the skull of a lieutenant with an entrenching tool before a squad closed in on him. Her other hand held a grenade, and she took another half-dozen ponies with her as it exploded.
Greenshield could see none of this carnage, but he could hear it. The trenches had been constructed in a zig-zag pattern, so that no enemy could simply fire along their entire length. All he could see was what was happening around him. Acorn Hope kept the machine gun firing as the rest of the crew prepared to defend the gun. Three Kirin jumped down, all snarling fangs and fearful bayonets. Rifles were not ideal in such close quarters, and the Equestrian long bayonet made them even more unwieldy, but if an accurate shot could be taken, it would still kill. Greenshield raised his gun and fired, winging one of the Kirin who was trying to bayonet another pony. She managed to finish the Kirin off by stabbing her bayonet deep into his gut.
More Kirin jumped into the fray. One of them had a shotgun and a rictus snarl of hatred upon his face. With one shot, he felled two ponies, their blood splattering on the walls of the trench. A unicorn managed to throw up a shield to protect himself from the Kirin's next shot, and he turned his attention on the machine gun crew instead.
Before he even knew what was happening, Greenshield was running. A cry in his lungs rose to a savage roar as he charged straight at the Kirin. In the split second it took for him to work the pump-action of his shotgun, Greenshield's bayonet had plunged deep into his chest, shoving the Kirin bodily to the ground with a supreme effort. Blood coated his bayonet when he pulled it free from between the Kirin's ribs, the fire fading from his form, his eyes draining back to their normal pale green as he stared lifelessly at the sky, his heart punctured by Greenshield's blade.
There were three Kirin ahead of him, but Captain Fine Feather hosed them down with her submachine gun, spitting death and bullets and felling all three. Like the one Greenshield had charged, they too faded back to their regular, pony-like forms upon death. There were shambolic cries from the next trench section, where gunfire echoed, along with the crump of grenades coming from their left flank.
"Stay here, Sergeant," Fine Feather ordered. "You're in command of this section for now. I'm going to see what the situation is farther down."
"Yes ma'am...!" Greenshield nodded, his rifle clutched in his hands, which, he only now noticed, were shaking, almost uncontrollably, as the adrenaline rush which had carried him toward the barrel of his foe's shotgun began to wear off slightly, though the thrill and terror of battle ensured he was not going to crash entirely just yet. Fine Feather led half a dozen rifleponies around the corner toward the next trench section, leaving Greenshield to continue to supervise most of the rest of the command platoon.
With the trench section cleared, the attentions of Greenshield and his gun crew could return, mostly, to threats from the outside. More Kirin were still rushing forward. Greenshield shouted orders for two ponies to watch each end of the trench section in case the enemy achieved a breakthrough farther down the line, and peered out toward the smoke. The Kirin were still making it across the open ground, but some were taking up firing positions out there, picking off anypony who dared to peek over the parapet. His machine gun crew would be a prime target.
"Sweep that sector!" he ordered Acorn Hope. "Make them keep their heads down." Acorn nodded and played the gun across the snow-clad hillside, kicking up dirt and puffs of disturbed flakes. The Kirin who were hunkered down were, Greenshield noticed, not the burning demons. They all seemed to be the ones charging the trenches, while their ordinary brethren maintained a disciplined rifle fire from the open ground.
More grenades exploded violently in the next trench section, and the staccato chatter of submachine guns could be clearly heard, as well as shouts and screams. Clearly, the Kirin were making progress in some areas. They had not been repulsed entirely quite yet. Casualties were mounting all along the line, on both sides- that much was clear from the bodies of the Kirin dead strewn like fallen leaves on the snowfield. The question was, when would the breaking point be reached? Who would crack first? Would the Kirin lose their nerves or run out of reserves, or would the Equestrian line snap?
Heavy fire continued to be poured down from the heights, the turreted guns blasting away, heavy shells landing among the advancing Kirin as they climbed the slopes. A second wave went in, capturing small sections of trench and sweeping away the ponies, only to be forced out in turn by counter-charges and sent scurrying back over the snow to the relative safety of their own line, now firmly established at the lip of the ridge with machine guns in support. The long-range artillery from the Equestrian fort pummelled the Kirin's lines of communication and supply, knocking out several wheeled ammunition carts and killing soldiers, but it was not enough to halt their determined push.
Eventually, however, they simply ran out of steam. Casualties were mounting on both flanks, despite the Kirin's best efforts. They had been repulsed from the trenches and held at the ridgeline. That was enough, for now. With the loud trill of whistles echoing along the line, the Kirin began to pull back, leaving their dead behind, dragging their wounded with them. Rifle and machine-gun fire pursued them the whole way until they were out of sight below the ridge. The Kirin artillery opened up again, hammering the Equestrian positions. They were gone for now, but they would most assuredly come again.
Harmony Bay had come under sustained shellfire for almost an hour, with the Kirin Navy venting their frustrations at not being able to engage the Northern Fleet on their own terms. Once the all-clear signal had been given, the grim task of calculating the losses began. The hospitals and the fleet's hospital ship reported a total of one-hundred and sixty wounded. There were twenty six dead- eight Yak civilians, ten pony civilians, and eight serviceponies from the Army and Navy. Among the civilian dead were three foals, just to add to the public outrage. News of the attacks could not be send by telegraph to Canterlot, for the Kirin had severed the line when they captured the railway, but messenger Pegasi were sent via a circuitous route to friendly positions in the north near Yakyakistan, as well as a fast corvette, under cover of darkness, which slipped out of the harbour to relay the news to the nearest friendly port-town not already in enemy hands, and to evacuate some of the wounded sailors, for if the Kirin were to bombard the city again, the hospitals could soon find themselves overwhelmed with casualties.
The news, predictably, was greeted with anger in Canterlot when it finally arrived a day late, relayed by telegraph from Yakyakistan. Public opinion turned even further against the Kirin. Formerly regarded as a curiosity, a kind of hermitic sub-species of pony, they were now viewed as something to be infuriated, not intrigued, by. Bad enough that they should have attacked Equestrian territory; worse still that they had tried to take the life of the Princess, according to the official statements on the bombing. Now worst of all, they had committed what was widely regarded as a war crime, the indiscriminate bombardment of a civilian city.
Never mind, the hawkish firebrands in Celestia's government argued, that Harmony Bay contained dozens of legitimate military targets which the Kirin could plausibly claim to have been aiming at. No, this was not an attempt to hit warships, docks, fortifications or supply depots. It was cold-blooded murder of innocents, including foals, the most heinous of all murders. Public fervour was whipped up deliberately in fiery rallies in public squares, incendiary columns in the newspapers, speeches broadcast from the parliament building for public consumption via radio- those few, influential families which had home radio sets, at least, mostly nobles, industrialists and the like, the kind of ponies whose opinions actually mattered.
With the announcement of the intention to put the Home Fleet to sea, public opinion swelled even greater toward a decisive war, driving the Kirin back across the water. Equestrian lands should belong to Equestria, not to any foreign power. That included the Kirin, and crucially, it also included the Yaks whose former territory now belonged to the Sun and Moon. Even those ponies who believed that the Yaks deserved to rule over their own lands did not truly believe that the Kirin would actually hand the provinces of Yakyakistan and Northwick over to their original owners if they managed to succeed in wresting them from the vice-like grip of Equestria, and while thy may not have approved of war, they certainly didn't approve of simply letting the Kirin get away with their blatant landgrab, either.
Nobody, it seemed, on either side, actually bothered to consult the Yaks themselves and gauge their opinion on the matter, at least directly. Their tribal leaders in Yakyakistan, with Prince Rutherford at their head, had no choice in the matter. Equestrian troops were going to defend their city and their land, and that was that. There was no question of compromise or making peace- not that the Yaks would have agreed to such a thing, as they were a traditionally warlike and aggressive race- and the Kirin would be pushed out. The semi-autonomy granted to the Yak lands would remain; but first, the invader had to be repelled.
The public announcement of the preparations being made by the Home Fleet might have seemed like a foolish move, for to give away one's intentions to the enemy was never a good idea. But the scale of the undertaking meant there was essentially zero chance of a secret sailing. The seas were vast and empty, but Manehattan was not, and nor would be the coaling stations along the route. The Kirin, given their conspiracy around the bombing, clearly had a network of spies or sympathisers in Equestria. Even if the fleet tried to depart under cover of darkness, with no foghorns or sirens sounding and no fanfare in the press, the Kirin would know, and they would know that there was only one likely destination for it. There was no hiding the fleet from view, for the anchorage was visible from hundreds of streets and thousands of windows in Manehattan.
With that determination made, the choice had been between trying to disguise the purpose of the sailing- a futile effort, as it had nowhere else to go but the Great Eastern Sea- or to simply announce it publicly and garner public support for the move. Celestia chose the latter, and her advisors agreed- all except Blueblood. The Admiral feared the obvious dangers of the Kirin knowing his fleet was on the move, but General Snow Meadow and Minister Copperhead had successfully argued that surprise was essentially an impossibility, given the nature of the journey and its length. The fleet could not make its course a secret, because it would have to stop at coaling stations on the way, and any kind of unusual activity at those ports would alert whatever spies the Kirin possessed that something was amiss, even if they did not see the Home Fleet itself.
Reluctantly, Blueblood had agreed to the idea of a grand, showy departure, normally something he would relish- a chance to polish his medals and strut about on the flag bridge of the Chevaline while hearty cheers rang out from the crowds ashore. If it might put the fleet in danger, however, he was cautious, though he would never deny the will of the Princess in such matters. To add even more weight to his shoulders, Princess Luna had also given her tacit approval to the idea of a royal sendoff for the Home Fleet, and with both sisters on board, it would take a much braver officer than Blueblood to oppose them.
So, one fine morning, when winter's first soft touches were gracing the air, the ponies of Manehattan turned out, en masse, to see a great spectacle.
It had taken several weeks, longer than had been desired, but everything was ready. Every little aspect had been taken care of, it was hoped. The holds of the colliers were full of coal, and every last spare space aboard the warships had been piled high with sacks of the stuff, for Admiral Blueblood wished to reduce the number of stops to a minimum. There was coal on the decks, coal in the companionways, coal tucked under crewponies' bunks. There was coal everywhere, and with it came dust, thick, nasty, cloying dust, residue from the vital fuel that the boilers needed. It fed the lungs of the capital ships, but it also clogged the lungs and nostrils of the crew who served them, irritating their eyes, noses and throats, for it permeated the ships like a particularly unwelcome perfume, and would continue to do so until the excess coal had been used up- at which point it would be replenished at the next stop, and continue to have the same effect.
The storage compartments were laden down with tinned goods; fruit in syrup and sugar, beans, cakes, sardines, anything which could be preserved in cans for a longer life. There was fresh produce, too- potatoes, bread, fruit and vegetables of varying kinds, sacks of rice, biscuits, preserves, tea, coffee and, perhaps most importantly of all, alcohol. Sailors, and their officers, drank copiously when off duty- and sometimes when on duty, too- and beer, rum, and vodka were vitally important. Not for health or efficiency, but for morale, for if a sailor and his or her drink were to be parted, trouble would invariably follow. Alcohol, and to a lesser extent, cigarettes, were the only vices technically permitted on board ship. Gambling was overlooked provided the sums involved were small, and fraternisation between crewmembers was outlawed, though it was not rare for some lovers to be found engaged in a tryst in some cramped crawlspace or paint locker. Relationships were frowned upon, though more casual affairs between a stallion and a mare, or any combination of genders, were often ignored, usually with the tacit reminder to find somewhere more private next time.
Given the sensitive and vital nature of their mission, Blueblood had issued a fleet-wide order limiting each pony to half their normal ration of alcohol and cigarettes, and instructing officers to take a much harsher stance on any gambling or fraternising they came across aboard their ships. The task before us, he wrote, is a monumental one. I shall not have my crews distracted, their aim faltering, their courage fading, because of an excess of indulgences. This, naturally, was met with great resentment from the crews, not only because in their opinion, the opposite was needed- more leniency and more drink, to get them through the endless voyage they faced- but also because the stench of hypocrisy was almost as thick in their noses as the ever-present coal dust. Blueblood was a renowned socialite who very much enjoyed all those same vices he was now cracking down upon, and the sailors had no doubt he would not be quite so harsh on himself during the voyage.
All of this meant that the Home Fleet was not a happy group when it prepared to depart. Its sailors faced a lengthy voyage with uncertain dangers and an unknown end, while being deprived of much of the small allowances that could go some way toward compensating them for the risks and deprivations they were about to endure. While the exterior of the ships were decorated with bunting, bright pennants and flags, inside their hulls, the mood was dark.
Ponies lined the dockside to say goodbye to their heroic sailors. The fleet was leaving, how long for, nopony could say for certain. Until the job was done, however long that would take. The families crowded onto the quaysides, while onlookers and spectators thronged to the shoreline and the bridge that spanned the narrows leading out of the bay and into the open water. It was a calm day, with a calm sea, perfect for sailing, and in the outer harbour, being kept at a safe distance by police launches, were a host of masts and sails. Local yacht clubs and water taxi services had offered fares for curious locals and visitors to take a boat out onto the chilly waters of the bay, to observe the spectacle of the fleet on the move. Many had accepted the offer and were wrapped up warm in scarves, hats and gloves while some seafaring pony kept a steady hand on the tiller, giving them a special view of the vast, bulky, gunmetal-grey warships as they prepared to sail.
Aboard the Chevaline, bedecked with bunting and innumerable flags, Princess Celestia and Princess Luna spoke with Admiral-Prince Blueblood one final time before his departure. They had one simple message for him to relay to everypony in the fleet.
Do your duty.
Out on the foredeck of the flagship, in front of the mighty barrels of her heavy guns, the ship's band played the national anthem as Celestia and Luna inspected the crew. Whatever thoughts they may have had about the folly of their journey and the conditions it was to be conducted under were banished temporarily by the presence of their leaders, for Celestia and Luna were universally respected, revered as the holy heads of government and the demigoddesses of their respective heavenly bodies. Most of the sailors worshipped at the altar of the Sun, but some, favouring the link between the Moon and the tides, worshipped Luna instead. To have them aboard the ship was a great honour and privilege indeed, and it cheered the crew's morale just to lay eyes on their Princesses.
As soon as they had departed aboard the royal yacht, however, the mood quickly soured again as Blueblood ordered them to immediately prepare for sea. There had been hope among the crews of the fleet for a big pre-departure banquet, but alas, that was just a nautical rumour. Blueblood did not want to waste any time. If the fleet was ready and it had the blessings of the two Princesses, then it was time to go.
So, shortly after noon on that crisp winter day, the ships of the Northern Fleet weighed anchor to the cheers of the crowds and the triumphant brass of the fleet bands. Foals waved and mares blew kisses, while soldiers saluted from the quayside. As they passed the fireboat station, the vessel gave each warship in turn a sendoff with fountains of water from its multitude of high-pressure nozzles, creating a shiny, brilliant rainbow as the sun shone through the curtains of mist. The whooping sirens of the freighters moored at the plethora of cargo piers and docks gave their own maritime goodbye to the brave mares and stallions of the expedition. Out under the great bridge they sailed, where ponies waved and threw down confetti and rose petals onto the decks, while some of the city's few motor taxis had parked on the roadway to toot their horns.
The Chevaline led the fleet, out toward the open sea where four coastguard ships were keeping submarine watch. The deadly, invisible underwater threat was what Blueblood feared most, but there had been no sightings of any Kirin submersibles anywhere in the Great Western Sea. Indeed, it was not even a certainty that they possessed submarines at all, for none had been observed by the diplomatic staff in Kirinton, but other naval powers, including Equestria and the Griffons, had submarines, so it was not an unreasonable fear to worry about. After all, the enemy would know the fleet had been preparing to leave.
One by one, the ships passed under the bridge out of Manehattan's harbour and into the cool ocean water beyond. There were six battleships, led by the Chevaline, and three battlecruisers. Eight heavy cruisers, six light cruisers, and then a string of twenty-four destroyers, funnels pumping out smoke as they followed the leader.
To bolster the fleet, Blueblood had assigned several officers from other detachments to join him as subordinate commanders so that, if and when they saw action, each line of ships could be led by their own commander. To that end, Vice-Admiral Moonshot, a capable, if rather staid, mare, had been made commander of the Second Division, while the Third Division would be led by Commodore Green Haze, the commandant of the Manehattan Squadron of coastal defence craft. The long-serving officer had been given his promotion to Rear-Admiral, well deserved and only so long overdue because of his own reticence in accepting recognition of his achievements and leaving the Manehattan Squadron he so loved.
Also with the fleet were a motley collection of other vessels. There were two auxiliary minelayers, and two minesweepers, their purpose evident from their names. There was a hospital ship, the ironically named Peace, and there was a fleet maintenance ship, as well as a separate destroyer tender. The slowest of all the vessels, apart from the hospital ship, were the ones that carried the vital lifeblood of the fleet. There were two tankers, loaded with crude oil and diesel for the smaller ships to utilise in their oil-fired boilers, and there were four colliers, which had holds stuffed to the brim with coal. Besides the capital ships, they were the most important vessels, for without their precious cargoes, the fleet would eventually run, quite literally, out of steam.
While the ships had been able to funnel out of the harbour in single file to the adulation of the crowds, now that they were out at sea, things became a little trickier, and it did not take long for something to go wrong. The fleet had to form up into the formation decreed by Blueblood and indicated by signal lamps and flags from the bridge of the Chevaline to simulate operating under battle conditions where the radio, for whatever reason, was unusable. That meant tricky manoeuvring, in between other great armoured hulks, and though the sea was calm, at least one cruiser managed to make a complete hash of it, having to desperately bring the rudder about to try and avoid a collision with a battleship and failing to do so in time, cutting a great, nasty gash in the finely finished paintwork on both vessels. Blueblood had berated both captains over the radio for their inattentiveness. It was not a very auspicious beginning to the journey.
Once the fleet was in formation, they set course southward, leaving Manehattan behind and heading down the smooth, sculpted coast, past beaches which, in summer, would be crowded with ponies from the city, but now looked lonely and windswept even in the sunshine. It had taken several hours for them to leave the bay and form up, and it was already getting dark, the burning orb of the sun going down in the west and slowly giving control over to Luna's moon. For fear of inviting a Kirin attack, Blueblood had ordered the fleet to run dark without their searchlights, but thankfully the clear skies helped them to keep their formation in the dark as it was easy enough to visually locate other ships.
Below decks, the sailors ate a simple barley stew with potatoes instead of the fancy departure banquet they had been hoping for. It was filling and warm, but that was about all it had to recommend it, nothing at all like the rich cuisine that, the grumbling rumours went, the Admiral was no doubt enjoying in his cabin. Only the best for those of high-born status. At least, they sighed, they had their half-rations of alcohol to keep them company into the long winter night.
Dear brother,
I do not know if you shall ever receive this letter. I do not know where you are; short of saying that most of the army has gone north, they will not tell me any more. I pray to the Sun and the Moon both that you are alive and well. I am still in Harmony Bay. The fleet is still hemmed in by the enemy and we cannot sail for fear of being overwhelmed. They have the numbers on us, and, I believe, the firepower also (the censors will no doubt delete that entire sentence). I fear it may be some time before we are able to leave. Wherever you are, I hope you are not too cold. I did receive the letter you sent while you were on your journey here; I do have that greatcoat, and it is serving me well, though it is a devil to dry once it gets wet, which is often. The climate here is barely worthy of the name. They have a quaint and oft-repeated saying. 'If you can't see the headland, it's raining; if you can see the headland, it's about to rain.' They are, however, forecasting a break from such tedium- snow is expected in the coming days. Perhaps you have already experienced some snowfall.
If you are able to reliably send letters home, and you receive this one, please pass on my love and best wishes to father and to Uncle Green Haze. I imagine it will be rather easier for you to get through than I. It will be a rather circuitous route this letter has taken if it ever does find its way to you- our post is having to be carried out by blockade runner. I do not pity the crews their task. Some are civilian fast freighters, but some are destroyers and I fear it may be our turn soon. The Kirin ships are everywhere. Some of the ships we send out do not make it back. I would not like to end up as missing on one of our daily casualty reports, though it is of course always a possibility with the sea being what she is.
I can hear the guns every day now- not their navy, but their army. They are pushing through our outer lines and trying to bring their artillery within range of the city itself. They are pounding the forts day and night. Sometimes I cannot sleep for the noise, though it comes from miles away. It carries itself on the breeze like a terrible birdsong. They want more guns in the fortresses. I also fear I may find myself posted there. I do not know what would be worse- running the blockade or facing their shells.
Whatever happens, remember that I love you, brother.
Greenwood
Another letter written, another letter to be cancelled from existence for the most part by the censors. Greenwood leaned back in his creaking chair. His pen was almost out of ink; he would need to fill it before he could write again. The deck beneath him swayed gently as the Defiant rode at anchor. A fair swell was picking up out at sea, and a squall was expected imminently. Snow was already falling, he could see, looking through the porthole. Despite the weather, the Kirin had not stopped. He could hear their distant guns. They were in control of the western half of the peninsula. Harmony Bay was well and truly cut off, and the weather just added to the misery of the local inhabitants and the sailors marooned there. Writing letters home was something most serviceponies- those who could write, at least- indulged in, for it was one of the few things that linked them with their families. The other was the dispatch of care packages and parcels with letters, photographs, notes from home and things that were hard to come by on active service- razor blades, cigarettes, home-made cakes, jam, a favourite brand of tea or coffee, hand-knitted socks, scarves or gloves.
Ah, gloves.
Greenwood missed a good, solid, high-quality pair of gloves. The navy issue ones he possessed were not exactly ideal for such frigid conditions as Harmony Bay was likely to experience in the close-at-hand winter. The snow flurries he could see already looked bitter, and he was sitting in a relatively warm ship's cabin. He dreaded to think what it would feel like with the wind coming in off of the sea.
"Hey, we're up."
Junior Lieutenant Tracer stood in the open cabin doorway. "Oakheart says we're to report to the pier in thirty minutes with one bag apiece."
"We're definitely going, then?" Greenwood asked slowly.
"It looks like it," Tracer nodded. Greenwood rose from his chair. He would drop the letter in at the military post office on the way, with hopes that it would wing its way to his brother.
"Alright then. Make sure you pack all your warm clothing. It can get pretty damn cold inside all of that concrete."
The ring of forts that surrounded the city were strong and well-fortified, but the garrison was understrength. They were especially short of heavy guns, and it had been agreed between General Wild Willow and Admiral Strongbow that some secondary batteries from the fleet's damaged destroyers could be removed and transported to the forts to reinforce them. It had been a long and strenuous process, with the guns having to be first stripped from the ships, broken down into parts and loaded into boats and barges to be transported to shore, then shipped laboriously over land by cart and motor-tractor out to the forts, where they could be reassembled. Though the forts themselves had less guns than would be ideal, they had plentiful supplies of eight and ten-inch ammunition for the guns they did possess, which could be used in the dismounted naval weapons, which shared the same calibres. Those naval guns would be most efficiently operated by sailors and their officers, which was why some were being siphoned off from the immobile fleet to go and support the fortresses.
As well as those heavier guns, there was now a demand for lighter guns to be fitted to defend the forts against infantry assault, which was why the four-inch guns from the damaged destroyers Windraven and the Windrider had been removed and sent out to the forts. Both of those ships had taken casualties, including officers, which was why Greenwood and Tracer had been ordered to transfer themselves to the forts and take command of some of the guns to help repel the inevitable attacks that would be coming.
It was a daunting prospect for most naval officers, though one that had been carried out in the past. Naval artillery, while superficially similar to land-based artillery in use by the army, had its quirks, and would ideally be crewed by experienced operators. Some, though by no means all, of the various shore batteries Equestria had established across its coastlines were similarly crewed, but not many naval officers would be expected to command a battery in the thick of a siege. At least Greenwood had infantry experience from his previous life as a Lieutenant of Foot, to use the technical term, serving in the army before switching to the navy, something which stood him in good stead not just for commanding the guns in the fort, but also in the event of any direct combat. He knew what it was like to come under fire, to be shelled by artillery, to be shot at, and to shoot back with one's own weapon, and not the very impersonal main turrets of a ship.
Greenwood packed his bag and made his way down to the pier with Tracer. They were told to walk to the main station, where, despite the line out of the city being cut, they would board a train. The trains were still running as a supply service between the city and its forts, shuttling ammunition, food and supplies, as well as soldiers and, now, sailors, to bolster the defences. Trudging through the dull streets in the overcast, slush and snow crunching and sloshing under their feet as they tramped through the mud, they two officers made their way to the station, via the military post office so Greenwood could post his letter to his brother.
The station was as drab as the rest of the city, a run-down brick and metal structure with dimly-lit waiting areas and exposed platforms, where the bitter wind swept freely across the waiting passengers- soldiers and sailors, in this case, plus several large stacks of small arms ammunition, boxed and prepared for transport to the forts. Upturned collars, gloved hands and sullen looks could only ward off so much of the cold, and it was difficult for Greenwood to remember seeing a more miserable-looking bunch of ponies in his life, huddled together on benches or standing listlessly, leaning against pillars, smoking cigars with empty faces. They knew they were going off to fight, and they knew that some of them would be going off to die.
It was a short journey, once the Yak train crew managed to get their aged locomotive running, less than fifteen minutes out to the fortress line, where the smell of cordite and smoke hung in the air. The Kirin bombardment was unceasing, pounding the trenches that lay in front of the forts. Each fort was widely spaced from each other, thick, squat concrete structures half buried in the earth, with observation and artillery cupolas peeking from the top, machine-gun embrasures, strongpoints, blockhouses and bunkers dotting the terrain in front of them, all heavily strung with barbed wire. Numerous trenches criss-crossed the landscape, both in front of and between the forts, where more pillboxes and mortar pits could be found, guarding the vulnerable flanks of each lynchpin in the line. The forts were the key to defending the city; if they held, the Kirin would find no purchase in Harmony Bay. But if they could break through...
The fortresses were deployed in staggered ranks, with three forming an outer line and another three protecting the direct approaches to the city itself. It was to the outer forts that the troops were being directed, along with the heavy guns, whenever there was a lull in the enemy bombardment. If the Kirin could isolate even one of the forts from its fellows, they could surround it and pummel it into submission, leaving the way open for their troops to pour through the line. They did not need to take every fort to gain access to the city, but merely to clear enough of a path for themselves. That was why the spaces in between the forts had been heavily fortified with trenches, wire and minefields.
The three forts in the front line, named simply Fort U, Fort V and Fort W, geographically arrayed from north to south across the peninsula, were already suffering from heavy artillery bombardments, and only when the firing died down could troops and equipment be safely moved up from the rear line, where Fort X, Fort Y and Fort Z were acting as a staging area. The railway line seemed to be spared from the efforts of the Kirin gunners, presumably because they could not see that it was still being used to shuttle ponies and supplies from the city, though they soon would, as two small, strategic hills, Hill 101 and Hill 124, had fallen to their assault outside of the line and pony observers had been forced back, meaning that it was now the Equestrian artillery that was firing blind.
Greenwood and Tracer entered a strange world, a moonscape of cratered earth, shattered trenches, torn wire. The little diesel engine chugged along, dragging half a dozen cars behind it, all the elderly locomotive could manage, each one laden down with one of the naval guns, with their crews and officers crammed into a single passenger car. All around them lay the devastation that artillery could unleash upon the land. Smashed, splintered tree trunks, the last remnants of nature, were all that could be seen to remind the grim-faced ponies that they were still in Equestria and not on some other planet that had been stripped of life. Fort V, their destination, lay ahead, almost on the rail line which it had been built to protect. The concrete structure was mostly buried in the earth, but some thirty feet of thick wall rose from the ground, studded with firing ports for cannons like the ones being brought up by rail. Smoke drifted across the trenches that lay in front of the fort, which looked mostly abandoned, but upon closer inspection would reveal ponies peering warily over the parapets, looking through trench periscopes and crouching over machine guns and mortars. Any lull in the firing could precede an attack by Kirin infantry, and they had to be ready. During the heaviest phase of the bombardments, most of the ponies would retreat into the fort itself, or find shelter in deep dugouts and sunken bunkers within the trench system itself, emerging rapidly once the firing died down to take up defensive positions.
A small branch of the rail line led into a siding at the rear of Fort V, where some of the garrison helped to rapidly unload the cargo of the little train onto hand-carts, which they hastily removed into the interior of the fort. The sailors, Greenwood and Tracer among them, followed their guide, a grizzled mare Lieutenant, who ushered them inside, out of the snow and, more importantly, out of the open air, for shells could start falling again at any moment.
The interior of the fortress had a rail system, where the diminutive hand-carts could be pushed or moved with a tiny electric locomotive, the size one might find at a foal's amusement park taking rides. Shells for the guns were thus shifted from the deep magazines to the batteries for use against the enemy. The four-inch guns from the navy were moved by the same method, into empty chambers located at the front of the fort, which had once mounted army weapons, until budget cuts had led to their removal as surplus to requirements. The irony was not lost on Greenwood or his fellow officers that it was the diversion of funds to the Northern Fleet which had necessitated the guns' removal in the first place; now it was naval artillery that was replacing them in the time of dire need.
Before the guns could be readied and reassembled, the Kirin shelling began anew, heralded by a message broadcast over the internal loudspeaker system of the fort, followed moments later by the muffled thuds of the first rounds landing. A rush of ponies suddenly appeared from a hallway that led to the frontline, their khaki uniforms stained with mud and melted snow as they made their way inside the fort for protection, passing through the gun chamber on their way to their standby positions inside the tunnels and galleries of Fort V.
Greenwood watched them pass by. They looked weary, though they had not yet actively fought the Kirin. The shelling, which had been going on for days, had clearly taken its toll on them. How it would affect the sailors, who were used to a different kind of impact from shelling, would remain to be seen. Psychologically, both soldier and sailor feared the shot that hit them, but apart from that, anything other than a very near miss at sea would have little to no impact upon the crew of a ship, especially those below decks who might not even know it had happened. A miss, as they said, was as good as a mile when it came to naval gunfire. Here, on land, there was no cushioning effect from millions of gallons of seawater to carry away the shock and concussion of heavy shelling. Nor, as Greenwood could hear, did the shelling come in nice, piecemeal, manageable bouts as the ship that was firing unleashed each of its guns in turn. This was continuous, a roar and thrum, even from inside the fort and its thick walls. This was different. This was a land war, with all of the physical and psychological stresses and baggage that came with it. This, Greenwood knew from experience, was hell.
"Incoming!"
Greenshield ducked down again, burying his face in the stony dirt at the bottom of the trench as the first shells landed. The Kirin were having another go at pounding the defences. The Equestrian observers on the mountainside had already spotted large troop formations assembling down in the lower valley. Soon they would be assaulting the ridge once more. Around him, the ponies of the 45th hunkered down to wait out the incessant noise and shock, praying to the Sun and Moon not to be in the unlucky trench section that took a direct hit. After the first attack had been repelled, Greenshield had taken a walk through the trenches to check on the rest of the company, and felt his guts turn and heave when he came across just such a sight. The trench walls had collapsed, and the infantry section which had been occupying it had been turned into scraps of bloody meat and ghastly red smears spread like butter across the stone and earth. If not for the remains of their uniforms, one would never even have known they used to be soldiers.
The thought that it could have been him and not them who had been torn to shreds by the shelling had sent a sharp chill down Greenshield's spine, and now that the Kirin were firing again, that feeling had returned. It still could be him, or any member of his section, his company, his regiment. It was indiscriminate, unfeeling. It did not matter how much you prayed or begged or sobbed. That would not be enough to protect you if the shell had your name on it. Only the thick rock and earth could do that- and no rock was thick enough to keep anypony absolutely safe. The trenches were cover, but they were not a shield against the shelling. A direct hit, as Greenshield as seen for himself, would still annihilate entire infantry sections or wipe out a mortar battery or gun crew entirely. There was little chance of actual shields saving you, either- they were rarely used in combat because only particularly powerful unicorns could cast shields large enough to protect more than just themselves, and even then they could not be held up for more than a few moments because of the great drain of mental and physical strength and will that they exerted upon the caster. The alternative option was to gather numerous unicorns together and have them all contribute their strength to a sturdier shield, but even that had its limits, and had the other downside of concentrating unicorns- who were often officers thanks to their ancient noble bloodlines- in one spot and pulling them away from their units, to say nothing of the fact that a single strike powerful enough to pierce the shield could see them all killed in one fell swoop. That was why they were only used very sparingly in land and naval combat, in emergency situations, for example to protect a badly damaged vessel as it retreated, or to press home a faltering attack.
They could not protect the entire line from shelling, and nor could magic shields protect them from what else was following on behind the bombardment. As the shelling lifted and the constant barrage of sound and fury died down, a new noise rose to fill its place, a heavy droning, like a billion wasps. Curious and nervous heads peeked over the parapets to be met by the sight of something entirely unexpected.
"The hell is that?" somepony shouted. Greenshield shook the shock and dust from his ears and peeked over to take a look for himself. There, hanging in the distant sky over the lower valley, was a flying cigar.
"Airborne contact!" somepony else shouted. "Enemy airship above!"
"Shit..." Greenshield spat. Now the Kirin were in the air, too? That was all they needed. One of the advantages of this war- and they were few- was that the Kirin lacked airborne troops, as they had no Pegasi or other winged members of their species. Evidently they had chosen to find their own way around that shortcoming.
The airship was massive, the length of a battleship, a silver giant of the skies, driving itself forward with a dozen propellers. That was what was causing the insect-like hum. Its powerful engines pushed its bulk through the air with surprising speed and grace. Hanging beneath the enormous gasbag were two large gondolas, plus a smaller cabin slightly to one side that contained the cockpit and control room. Each gondola bristled with guns; repeating cannons and machine guns, a total of six of each, plus two more machine guns topside above the gasbag to protect against air troops. As it drew closer, hovering high above, they began to fire, raking the ridgeline with bullets and explosive shells. Having approached under cover of the shelling, the airship was now too close and too high to be engaged by the Equestrian field guns.
"Shit...hit that thing with everything you've got!" Major Blitz shouted. "Get some of those machine guns on your high-angle mounts! It's coming in fast!" Captain Fine Feather ran along the line, directing each alternate machine gun to switch to their anti-air mountings, tripods that allowed them to swivel the gun to almost vertical and fire up at airborne troops or, in this case, airships. Greenshield and his crew were directed to remain focused on the ridge ahead, because the Kirin were almost guaranteed to be launching an attack at any moment in conjunction with their newly-arrived air support.
"Nopony told us that thing was coming, sarge!" Acorn Hope complained as he sighed in the gun and racked it, ready to fire, a fresh belt of ammunition loaded.
"I don't think anypony knew," Greenshield replied. He, for one, certainly had been unaware that the Kirin possessed the technology to create airships- only Equestria and the Griffons had been previously known to utilise air power, using their airships both as patrol craft and assault ships, deploying airborne cavalry to descend upon an enemy position from on high. The Kirin, lacking wings, could not do the same, but they could certainly use their airship as a mobile bombardment platform.
"Heads down, watch out! That thing isn't discriminating between ponies who knew it was coming and those who didn't!" Captain Fine Feather warned as she returned down the line. "Keep watch, they're sure to be attacking any second."
"Yes ma'am!" Greenshield replied with a firm nod. They may not have been ready for the airship's arrival, but at least some of the defences had been, for machine-gun fire was rattling away from the high ridge, and several of the artillery guns located to the rear were trying their best to hurl shells at it. They were not having much effect; even when a hit was scored, the gondolas were heavily armoured and not easy targets, and the gasbag, the most vulnerable part of the craft, seemed to be well protected as well, much of the underside of its fabric outer layer covered with solid metal plates. Even the engines had metal grille-like boxes fitted around them, to allow the air to continue to flow into their intakes but deflect incoming projectiles.
The few dedicated anti-air guns in the defensive line began to blast out their 40mm shells, explosive rounds that acted like grenades when detonating among a squad of airborne soldiers. The airship was high overhead, and small arms fire was of limited use, but these shells had a much greater chance of penetrating the craft's armour. However, the telltale puffs of smoke and the flashes of high-angle muzzles gave away the positions of the defensive guns to the airship's gunners, who, in turn, swung their rapid-fire machine-cannons onto target and began picking off the anti-air guns one by one.
As the airship droned into position overhead, a second roar rose from the crest of the ridge as the Kirin began their charge. They advanced at a run, machine guns laying down suppressing fire on the trenches. The Equestrians began to fire, but the airship had them all in its sights. From on high, the gunners in their armoured gondolas could see every trench, every foxhole, every machine gun and every movement everypony made. They raked the trenches with machine-gun fire and strings of cannon shells that tore ponies open. Under fire from in front and above, the pony defences faltered. Though dozens of Kirin fell crossing the open slopes, hundreds more swept on under cover of the blanket of fire from the airship. As the giant, lumbering craft reached the airspace directly above the lines, strings of bombs detached themselves from racks beneath the main gondola, whistling as they fell and adding to the carnage and chaos below. One of them struck the turret of the bunker guns, not enough to penetrate the armour, but damaging both barrels and putting it out of action.
Acorn Hope worked the gun across the oncoming ranks of Kirin, their khaki uniforms standing out against the backdrop of snow-covered hills behind them. They threw grenades as they advanced, and reached the trenches to the left of their gun, leaping down and engaging in furious combat with the defenders for control of each small segment of sandbagged line. The wooden duckboards beneath their feet ran red with blood as they slaughtered their way through the ponies, until, time and again, they were met by a counter-charge from another trench section that pushed them back and massacred them in turn. The gunfire from the airship helped to pin down the Equestrian soldiers who were occupying rear trenches and hoping to move forward to support their fellows, for any movement would bring down the wrath of the machine-cannons that swung from target to target as machine gun fire rattled ineffectually from the armoured gondolas. Kirin artillery, careful not to aim too high for fear of hitting their own airship, lobbed shells onto the rear lines while their infantry charged forward.
Acorn Hope cut down half a dozen Kirin soldiers with his first belt of ammunition, and Easy Peeler set about loading another, the cloth-linked rounds, a hundred in total, providing serious firepower against any ground attack, or, when fixed to the pintle mount, against an aerial attack, as some of their fellow guns were doing, spewing lead at the airship and taking fire in return. Several gunners went down, being replaced by their backup ponies, but the Kirin infantry were sweeping up as well, and rapidly captured several parts of the trench network, despite heavy fire being thrown at them. The support of the airship, which was dividing the aim of the defenders and halving the number of machine guns available to slow down their infantry, was having the desired effect so far as the Kirin were concerned.
"Shit...they're pushing hard on the left flank!" Greenshield shouted over the din of the gun, tapping Acorn on the shoulder and directing his aim with a quick diagonal jab of an extended hand. "Over there!" Acorn swung the gun and it bucked and shook in his grip as he expended the last of his second belt of ammunition, catching a few Kirin stragglers and mowing them down as they tried to reach the safety of the captured trenches.
"Look out!" a stallion shouted. "Airship's got a bead on you!" Greenshield glanced up with a sinking feeling. One of the machine-cannons on the front gondola seemed to be aiming right at them, leaving them almost no time to react.
"Down, down!" he shouted, hurling himself to the ground as the gun began to fire. Bodies hit the bottom of the trench all around him as the rest of the crew tried to shelter themselves from the hurricane that suddenly blew up around them. A flurry of 20mm shells from the machine-cannon smashed into the ground, bursting sandbags, tearing through wooden planks and logs and kicking up dust, dirt and snow. Sharp pain cut through Greenshield's flesh as shrapnel ripped through his uniform and skin, making him cry out. Each shell struck the ground with a thud, the cacophony of a full barrage striking so close around them being as loud as hail on the roof of a greenhouse or an old tin shed, rattling his mind as efficiently as the much heavier rounds from the Kirin artillery had done.
In a few seconds it was over, the Kirin gunner moving on to another target, having knocked the machine gun out of action, at least temporarily. Greenshield scrambled to his feet, gripping his rifle, wincing at the stinging cuts on his back. The trench was in disarray. Two ponies from another company lay dead, sprawled out like discarded playthings, while another rolled around in agony, clutching the stump of her ruined arm.
"Medics! Medics!" Greenshield called, looking around for further casualties. His gun crew were all alive and picking themselves up. The same could not be said of their weapon. The machine gun had been smashed, its barrel bent and burst, the gun itself knocked from its mountings.
"Gun's fucked!" Acorn Hope growled.
"Then we use our rifles," Greenshield replied, giving his own weapon a quick once-over to make sure it was undamaged and ready for war. "Fix bayonets if you haven't already. Let's drive these bastards out."
The gun crew complied, readying their weapons as two stretcher bearers from the rear came up to remove the moaning mare to receive medical aid. Gunfire was still rippling from neighbouring trench sections and the Kirin were making good progress toward the high peak where the heavy turreted gun, unable to raise its barrels high enough to engage the airship, was picking off knots of infantry as they tried to storm the rocky plateau and gain access to the bunkers buried within it. Breaking through the pony lines there would give the Kirin a commanding position overlooking not only the rest of the line, but also the rear defences that covered the approach to the great fortress at the head of the valley, the final redoubt before Yakyakistan.
The airship was helping them force their way through, its brutal and accurate gunfire undeterred by sniper fire and machine guns. Even where a pony gunner found a clear shot on the craft's gasbag, it had no effect. A tiny pinprick from a bullet would cause a leak of the precious lifting gas, but only in minuscule quantities, the reverse effect of trying to sink a ship by filling it with water using a syringe. To add to the difficulties, the large sacs that held the gas in individual cells inside the airship were self-sealing thanks to an inner rubber liner. Something was needed to either tear a huge, gaping hole in the airship, or to ignite the gas inside. Regular bullets and even the high-explosive shells from the anti-air guns alone were not enough.
As Greenshield and his section took aim with their rifles and began engaging the advancing Kirin infantry, a brave group of Pegasi took to the air from the high ridge, braving enemy fire as they flew up toward the airship as fast as their wings could carry them. Snipers picked off a few, but most made it up, to be engaged by the machine guns on top of the airship, which had been installed for just such a possibility. Up they went, only to be mown down by accurate fire, which they countered with their own submachine guns. It took them numerous casualties, but they managed to land atop the airship, and set about their work.
Kirin soldiers emerged from a hatch at the other end of the airship, by the other machine gun position, and a game of cat and mouse began. There was nowhere to hide atop the smooth canvas gasbag. Pegasi and Kirin lay flat, partly for protection from bullets and partly for protection from the icy winter wind which streamed over the top of the giant craft as it moved. The Kirin had rifles, more accurate than the Pegasi's submachine guns, but difficult to use effectively in the slipstream, as the wind knocked their aim and gave the advantage to the ponies, who could use their wings to stabilise themselves and advance in great leaps instead of crawling along. Several unfortunate Kirin who were hit lost their grip on the craft and plunged like meteors over the side, falling to a screaming death on the sharp rocks below. As the battle below raged, so too did this second theatre of war on high, a struggle for control of the airship. The ponies had orders to capture the craft if possible, but if that was proving too difficult, destroying it would be just as useful. With dogged resistance from the Kirin, the lieutenant in command of the raiding party decided the latter was the way to go.
With knives and bayonets, the ponies tore a hole in the gasbag and descended into the innards of the airship, a great confusion of concertinaed metal struts, walkways, and the huge sacks, airtight, that held in the vital lifting gas, a mixture of hydrogen and helium, that kept the airship flying. Here too there were Kirin, who had rapidly descended from the top of the airship back through the hatch when they realised what the ponies were doing. A mad melee ensued at close range, where the rifles of the Kirin, superior at range when firing along the top of the airship, were suddenly cumbersome and unwieldy in the close confines of the interior. The ponies with their submachine guns and short, stiletto-like bayonets had the upper hand, and the Kirin were kept at bay while the ordinarily self-sealing sacks of gas were slit wide open with knives and fuses set. As soon as they were lit, the ponies scrambled back out through the gash they had cut in the outer skin of the airship and took to the wing, swooping clear and back down toward friendly lines.
As the fuse-cord burned, it came, naturally, into contact with the gas, which was steadily flowing from the punctured sacks and toward the gash in the outer cover which was acting as a kind of flue, drawing the gas naturally toward the open air beyond. Coming into direct contact with naked flame was enough to ignite the gas, and before the Kirin crew in the cabin below were even aware of what was happening, the interior of the gigantic gas envelope above their heads was already wreathed in flame. When the fire warning lights began to illuminate on their control panels, it was already too late to save the craft. Panicked alarm stations were sounded and firefighting parties dispatched, but the flames were already burning through the outer cover, licking at the open air, hungry for more oxygen to fuel their insatiable lust. Observers on the ground and the surviving anti-air crews gave a wild cheer as they noticed the first flickers of light, like sailors spotting the first streaks of blue sky after weathering a horrid storm.
The disaster befalling the airship came at just the right moment. The left flank of the defences, on the high ridge, had been breached, and the Kirin were pouring through, under heavy support from the airship's guns as they stormed the bunkers and trenches. The airship's captain ordered all engines stopped, to help prevent the further spread of flame by virtue of the slipstream fanning the flames, but it was no use. The fire spread like a summer blaze through bone-dry brush, and soon the front half of the airship was a flaming torch in the sky, slowly slipping backward, away from the ridge and into the valley, as it lost buoyancy and altitude. The desperate crew faced a hellish choice; ride their craft down and roast to death, but with a tiny slim hope of being able to scuttle free from the wreckage when it struck the ground, or jump.
Most opted for the former, for any hope was better than none, but the prospect of being crushed under tonnes of flaming debris was too much for many. A lucky few in the gunnery stations had access to parachutes, simple canvas devices, crude and not particularly reliable, but many of the crew were cut off from their chutes by the rapidly spreading flames. Those who could leaped to safety, their parachutes billowing above them like mushrooms after a spring rain. Others hesitated in the doorways or hatches of the gondolas, paralysed by fear. Above them, the gasbag was burning, great globs of molten canvas and metal dripping down, igniting fires on top of the cabins and idling engines. It took less than a minute for the entire length of the airship to be ablaze, and the airship descended like a comet into the lower valley, sending Kirin reinforcements scrambling desperately to get out of its path as it fell, stern first, crumpling up like an accordion as it hit the ground, the screech of rending metal and crashing frames filling the air. Those who had not jumped, with or without parachutes, were crushed beneath the six hundred-foot long wreck, burned alive as they lay trapped in the twisted, shattered remains of the airship, all skeletal metal girders and struts, the canvas outer cover completely burned away.
With the airship went the momentum from the Kirin assault. They had reached the limit of their aggression, of their stamina. Without the gunfire from above, the attack stalled and stagnated, much as their first wave had done. Ground down by gunfire, worn out by the slog up the slopes, harassed by artillery and mortars, the Kirin spent the rest of the day trying desperately to hold the ground they had won, high on the ridge. Before night fell, they were on the run, driven out by Equestrian reinforcements and a heavy bombardment from the fortress guns to the rear. They would not come again, but that did not mean that the war for Yakyakistan and Northwick was over. If anything, the desperate struggle was only just beginning.
Below Ground, Below Water
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."
"Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is the ENS Fillydelphia. We have been torpedoed!"
Admiral Blueblood, finally back in his command chair aboard the Chevaline's bridge after a night of ignominious nausea in his cabin, reacted with an alarmed intake of breath to the relayed radio signal, patched through from the radio room to the bridge.
"Torpedoes! I knew it...we were right to be cautious, Captain!" he addressed Champagne Crown. "The confounded storm caused this. If the fleet had still been together..." Crown knew better than to point out the obvious fact that it had been Blueblood who had ordered the fleet into the hurricane in the first place. "Are they certain? Certain they did not hit a mine?" Blueblood demanded to know. The radio operator questioned his panicked companion at the other end of the line.
"Negative! We have been torpedoed. At least two strikes, possibly three, I don't know...by Celestia, we're going down fast...mayday, mayday, mayday! Our position is two-six-eight-eight, three-four-one-six. Please, help us!"
"Should we change course, Admiral?" the helmspony sang out.
"Of course not!" Blueblood replied. "Do use whatever little common sense you have. Find out from the Fillydelphia. Was it a torpedo boat, a submarine, a destroyer? What was it? Did they see anything? Any contacts?"
"No sir. They reported being struck out of the blue," Crown replied. "I suspect it must have been a submarine."
"Damn them! Damn those Kirin!" Blueblood snarled. "Dispatch three destroyers to that area. Have them search for the submarine, and if they have time, rescue any survivors from the Fillydelphia. "
"Aye, sir..." Crown replied. "And the rest of the fleet?"
"Continue on to the rendezvous point," Blueblood ordered. He had selected a set of coordinates some miles to the east as a point for the fleet to regroup after the storm had torn their formation apart overnight. There, they would gather in mutual safety, but for now many of the ships, battleships and battlecruisers included, were on their own or with only a modicum of escort. The danger of attack was very real, and had just taken shape in physical form for all to see. Suddenly Blueblood's insistence upon light and radio discipline did not seem quite so onerous and authoritarian. If the Fillydelphia could succumb out of the blue, so could any of them, including the flagship, though the Chevaline was at least being escorted by a cruiser and one destroyer, outfitted with hydrophones to hopefully detect any submerged threats and counter them.
"Mayday, this is the Fillydelphia. We are abandoning ship. Celestia protects, but please help us. Fillydelphia out..."
So that was it, then. The Fillydelphia was sinking, succumbing to the waves and the predations of the Kirin. Would they be the only ones, the unlucky victims of a chance encounter?
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the ENSS Provider! We are under attack by an enemy submarine!"
Another shockwave ran across the bridge. The Provider was one of the fleet oilers, a vital asset. They had already lost one of the colliers overnight thanks to the storm; now they were to potentially lose more of their lifeblood here? That was unacceptable. Unacceptable.
The Provider was, from their radio last contact report, in the same vicinity as the Fillydelphia. This was confirmed a moment later when her radio operator relayed updated coordinates, showing they were within the same grid square on the broad, featureless map of this part of the ocean. That was, perversely, good news, for it meant that they had almost certainly been attacked by the same submarine as the battleship. The strength of the Kirin Navy's submarine arm was not known, but it was not believed to be any larger than half a dozen boats at the most. At least they now knew where one of them was likely to be located. Blueblood ordered two hydrophone-equipped corvettes to the scene to support the destroyers he had already sent. They would hunt this hidden menace down and crush her like a tin can. That, at least, was the hope.
"New contacts! Bearing two-seven-zero and two-eight-zero," Verdant Vision hissed, drawing the attention of his captain. Cherry Cascade was still sweat-soaked,, but a little more jubilant than she had been half an hour earlier. The enemy battleship had gone down like a broken tree limb tumbling over a waterfall, disappearing beneath the waves within three minutes, by her stopwatch-count, taking some five hundred or so ponies with her to a dark, invisible grave. The oiler, on the other hand, was still afloat even fifteen minutes later, blazing merrily like a Hearth's Warming bonfire so beloved of the followers of Celestia.
Not wanting to waste a torpedo on a ship that could not fight back unless she absolutely had to, Cascade had given the orders for a gun action, where the submarine would surface alongside the target vessel and threaten her with her deck gun, giving the crew time to abandon ship and take to the lifeboats before opening fire. It was a tactic which the Kirin Navy had developed in anticipation of a potential war against Equestria, for it was Equestria that had the world's largest fleet of merchant vessels- freighters, fast steam packets, grain carriers, chemical tankers, even a few of the old clippers that traded, historically, between the Kirin Empire and Equestrian waters. Though this oiler carried military markings and, judging by its name, was an auxiliary ship supporting the fleet, one of the pair of tankers that the Kirin's spies in Manehattan had reported accompanying the departing vessels, Cascade decided to be lenient. Under the terms of formal international maritime law, any military vessel, auxiliary vessel, coastguard or coastal protection vessel, except for clearly marked hospital ships, would be fair game to an adversary, and she had every right to simply blow the tanker out of the water as she had done with the battleship. Even merchant vessels that flew the flag of a belligerent nation were considered acceptable targets, but the Kirin had developed their tactics to avoid unnecessary civilian bloodshed. They were not savages, despite their mysterious reputation and the sudden, unprovoked attack they had unleashed upon Northwick and Yakyakistan provinces.
The Formata had surfaced several hundred yards from the tanker and, using a loudspeaker from the top of the conning tower, Cascade had called to her captain for his surrender. With no weapons on board except a few rifles, the Provider's captain had quickly realised he had no option but to surrender. With the rest of his crew, he took to the lifeboats and floated with the tide, helpless to stop the submarine from carrying out its mission. Once the crew were clear, the deck gun blazed into life and put several rounds into the tanker until she was well alight, her flammable cargo happily igniting. Once that was done, the gun crew began to seal the gun against the underwater elements, ready for diving. That was when the hydrophones picked up something.
"All compartments, bridge. Diving stations, diving stations!" Cascade ordered over the internal circuit. "All compartments rig for diving stations."
The crew sprang into life, another well-oiled and well-practised technique, though now being used in perilous conditions for the first time. The gun crew rushed their task to completion, sealing the gun against the waters, while internal hatches were secured and Kirin rushed to their stations.
"Target identification?" Cascade questioned.
"Light screws, fast turn-rate..." Verdant Vision mused. "Destroyer on bearing two-seven-zero and I think two more on two-eight-zero, ma'am. Maybe three in total."
"Then it's time for us to leave," Cascade replied. "All hands ready for diving?" she asked her executive officer, who nodded.
"All compartments report ready! Bridge cleared. The boat is ready for diving, captain."
"Dive, dive, dive!" Cascade ordered. The diving officer pulled the handle to flood the ballast tanks, venting out the air that kept the submarine buoyant and filling them with seawater instead from external vents. The long nose of the submarine slipped beneath the water in a flurry of bubbles, then the deck gun was awash, and finally the stern and conning tower, disappearing beneath the foaming sea.
Soon came the destroyers, whose impending arrival had alarmed the Kirin, steaming at flank speed toward the column of smoke from the burning tanker. They would find and rescue the crew of the Provider, but of the mighty battleship Fillydelphia and her six hundred crew, there was no sign. Nor was there any indication of the whereabouts of the submarine which had sunk her. As abruptly as she had burst onto the scene, the Formata was gone, silently slipping away beneath the waves, perhaps to return to her base and rearm, or perhaps in search of more prey.
The temperature inside Fort V had improved a little, for the competing weather fronts that swirled on high in the atmosphere had battled each other to a kind of stalemate. The freezing winds and snow from the mountains had been moderated by a sudden switch to an oceanic blast of wet, but slightly warmer air. Torrential rain had turned the landscape outside into a swamp, thick mud and flooded shell craters. Rain washed in through every opening, every gun mantlet, every firing port, every observation dome, meaning many rooms and corridors were full of puddles where the water gathered, deprived of proper drainage by the concrete floors and inadequate wastewater grilles. All of the snow which had come earlier in the week now just added to the deluge, melted by the rain and the slightly warmer temperatures. It was a thoroughly miserable place to be, and there was no end in sight, for when the rain stopped, the Kirin would likely come.
Lieutenants Greenwood and Tracer spent quiet night-time hours wishing for a return to their bunks aboard the Defiant, for at least there they could be warm and dry, unless on deck watch. Here in Fort V, Greenwood relived much of the deprivation and discomfort of his time in the infantry, though at least then his actual active service had been in warm, desert conditions, miserable in their own way but perhaps not so pervasively uncomfortable- at least in the desert, it cooled down at night. Here in Northwick in winter, it never warmed up.
Two days and two miserable, chilly nights later, the rain had finally stopped, though that merely meant the puddles and miniature lakes it had formed were slowly set to become stagnant. The fort's own supply of fresh water was contained in a large tank, but could be added to with collected rainwater, provided there were enough purification tablets remaining to add to it. There had been experiments in the past with trying to purify dirty water with magic, but after the ponies taking part had been hospitalised with gastrointestinal parasites, it was decided that magic was not enough, and science would have to ride to the rescue in the future.
The Kirin guns had been relatively quiet during the downpours, content to keep their powder dry and wait out the worst of it, though there had been some sporadic shelling during the evenings when conditions had improved. Now, however, with the rain abating and the skies a little less leaden, they began once more to pound the fortress-line. Several weeks of firing had left the Kirin artillery with little to destroy outside of the forts themselves. The barbed wire entanglements had been mostly cut to ribbons, the outer trenches broken and smashed, shattered wood and torn sandbags. If the Kirin came, they would be reoccupied immediately by the defenders, but there was not much left to occupy in truth, so thorough a job had the Kirin gunners made of their work. Repair details had been out each night, even in the pouring rain, to try and fix up what they could, but filling a few sandbags with sloppy mud and relaying some barbed wire just so it could be blown apart in the next morning's dawn barrage did very little to improve the strength of the fortifications.
After one more night of shelling, and one impressively long and heavy dawn bombardment, including a dozen shells from the enormous siege cannon, the Kirin came at last.
Rising from their trenches beyond the shattered treeline, which had been pulverised by Equestrian artillery, the Kirin poured forward. Heavy machine guns opened fire in support, both from their trenches and atop the two low hills they had captured weeks before and had been using as observation posts for their artillery. The Equestrians rushed out to their trench positions, only to be caught in a mortar barrage, inflicting a few casualties and denting morale. But they took their places, and they opened fire.
With the Kirin now actively assaulting the fortress, Greenwood's guns could now be called into action in support. Their firing ports were opened, thick metal shutters being pulled aside and the guns rolled out on their runners, like on board the galleons of old. Heavy shells with high-explosive and shrapnel warheads were loaded, with only small powder charges behind them- they would be firing at relatively close range, nothing like the thousands of yards the guns could hurl their payloads when firing out on the open water.
The naval cannons were already aimed, pre-sighted on specific points to be fired over open sights like field guns, ranges taken from ranging marks, sticks planted in the ground at certain distances so that artillery and machine guns could be zeroed in and know exactly how far away the enemy was at any given time. As the Kirin slogged through the thick mud, already under artillery and machine gun fire, they added their own power to the onslaught. Greenwood ordered his section of guns to fire, and they bucked and roared, hurling shells at the advancing infantry. Designed to pound medium-size, unarmoured hostile warships into submission, the high-explosive shells made short work of unprotected soldiers, shrapnel tearing through their bodies, their innards pulverised by the shockwave of each blast. Bodies tumbled into the mud, trampled underfoot by the squads behind them as the Kirin's relentless push continued.
To Greenwood, watching through the viewing periscope and firing apertures of the gallery inside Fort V, it could scarcely be described as war. It was simply slaughter, the endless bloodlust of conflict being slowly satiated by body after body, death after death, drinking in the fluids and the souls of the fallen. The Kirin, despite their artillery bombardment, had little chance, for the defences around the fort were still too strong. The ponies occupied the trenches even though they had been half-smashed to oblivion, denying the Kirin their use for shelter. Instead the attackers were caught in no-ponies-land, a morass of mud and half-melted snow, pinned down in shell holes, bleeding out into the quagmire. They were unable to break through, and, under such withering fire, unable to easily retreat either. Fort V was not going to fall so easily, despite day after day of preparatory bombardment from the Kirin artillery.
Elsewhere along the line, however, they were having more success. Fort U, to the north of Fort V, had been heavily pounded by artillery, identified as a potential weak link in the Equestrian line. The fort was close to the storm-wracked cliffs at the northern edge of the peninsula, and the dangers of subsidence and undermining from the ceaseless action of the sea meant that less substantial underground works had been constructed there. Fort U was both less able to withstand a prolonged siege and also less able to repulse a direct attack. As a result of the problems with its construction, it had a smaller garrison, fewer guns, and less supplies in its store-rooms. The Kirin had thus directed the majority of their strength toward it, and rapidly achieved a breakthrough. While Fort V and Fort W were resisting and the Kirin infantry there were going through the meat grinder, their compatriots to the north managed to take the outer works of Fort U by storm, severing its connection with the rest of the line and, by the end of the day, with Fort X, several miles to its rear. The Kirin quickly surrounded the fortress and pushed several regiments through the gap in the line, into the open ground between the two rows of forts. Lacking strong reserves, the Equestrians under General Wild Willow could only mount a small counter-attack, not enough to drive the Kirin back and leaving them in possession of the land all around Fort U.
This setback took time to be relayed to the other forts Greenwood and the others at Fort V did not learn of it until the following morning, by which time the Kirin had consolidated their position and begun assaulting Fort U directly, trying to clear it out so they could take control of its guns and turn them to their own use. Meanwhile, through the night, Kirin troops had been pouring through the gap they had torn in the frontline and advancing south. By the end of the following day, Fort W and Fort V were both surrounded, cut off from the city and the second line of defences to their rear. Wild Willow's attempts to plug the gap had been futile, even with heavy artillery support from the rear forts. She and her subordinates had been taken by surprise at the speed of the Kirin breakthrough, and with a sensible streak the General was unwilling to risk too many of her inexperienced troops- from a hodge-podge of units and services, including the Border Guards and the local militia- in a full assault to retake the surrounded forts. If the counter-attack failed it would leave the rear line of fortresses stripped of much of their garrison and the city itself denuded of its protection. Losing one line of forts was a problem. Losing them both would have been a disaster.
So, a day after repelling the first Kirin attack, the defenders of Fort V found themselves cut off from support, connected only to Fort W to their south by meandering trenchworks but isolated from support or relief from the city. The fort had not fallen, and the defenders were in good heart, but the Kirin would be determined that their morale would crack as sure as the concrete shell that protected them. With the guns of Fort U in their hands, they turned them south, adding their newly acquired firepower to their existing bombardment, including the heavy siege gun that lay beyond the hills, all of which now focused on Fort V as the next target. It would be a long, and loud, night ahead.
Through The Fire And Flames
Dear Father,
You shall probably never receive this letter. Our mail service is still collecting them from everypony, but they cannot send them anywhere. The fort is cut off. The Kirin have advanced and taken another part of the line. I might as well include the name since the censors will probably not even get to see this letter to remove it. They have taken Fort U, to our north, and now surround us, practically on all sides. Only a thin wedge of trenches connects us with any other ponies, farther down the line at the next fort. That is all we now have, our only lifeline, the final artery. If it is cut, our body will die. It may take hours, or days, or weeks, but it will die. And when a body dies, all its organs die with it. Everything within. Every cell.
I am sorry, not that it matters, for you shall not read this. I suppose at this point I am writing just to ease my own conscience, and to fill the time, for we are doing an awful lot of waiting considering we are under fire day and night. There is nothing for most of us to do until the Kirin come. That is one of the main differences of war today, father, compared to your day. Artillery is no longer a nuisance, just to support an assault or break up an incoming attack through direct fire. It is all that and so much more. It is incessant. They can hit us from so far away that we cannot even hear the reports of their guns, only the roar of the shells they have fired. Back in your day, the infantry could at least rest assured they might be able to overrun the enemy cannons and put a stop to their firing. Now, we cannot even rely on our own artillery to end the torture. The Kirin control the high ground; we do not even know where their gun positions are, and firing blind so far does not seem to have done our gunners any good. Either they are simply wasting ammunition, or the Kirin can replace their losses at an astonishing rate, for their guns never stop. The other fort to our south is under heavy attack, both by artillery and infantry assault. There are even strange reports of metal beasts accompanying the Kirin, and of devilish magic being used, and of the dead rising from the shell craters to join the next attack. All fanciful,, no doubt. You know how soldiers talk.
The cold has returned. It is hard to even hold the pen to write this letter, though I have good gloves. I am not sure whether the fortress and its dull concrete walls keep us warmer than if we were outside, or if it somehow chills the air to an even greater degree. One of the mares in my unit has found that her spectacles continually frost over each morning when she puts them on, and has taken to keeping them inside her bedroll with her instead. Alas, she 'bedrolled' a little too far yesterday, and now only has one functional lens. The cold affects our weapons, too. If our guns are not kept well oiled and greased, they too will freeze and refuse to fire. Not much different to the needle guns and lever-rifles you used in that sense, father, though technology has advanced over the last thirty or forty years since you first joined up as a private! Some things shall forever remain the same. War never changes, as they say.
For all the differences, we are in a similar situation to any pony down the centuries who fought. Our fate is scarcely ever in our own hands, in truth. If one wished to blaspheme, one could say that it is not in the hands of the Sun, either, but that chance, serendipity, is what determines who lives and who dies. Does the Princess guide each shell, each bullet, or is it happenstance, the wind direction, powder charge, the slight defects and differences between each round, the temperature of the air through which they pass?
I must stop now, for I do not wish to voice such thoughts. Celestia Protects, of course, and Luna Watches, no matter how strongly soldiers sometimes momentarily feel otherwise. I love you, father. I hope to see you again one day, Sun and Moon willing. If I do not, if the forts and the city should fall, and you somehow obtain this letter, then do not weep for me. Weep for Equestria, for it will have suffered a grievous wound.
Your loving son,
Greenwood
Another letter written, perhaps for little purpose. Greenwood at least felt some cathartic release from writing it, even if his father would never actually read it. It may end up buried or burned or torn to shreds, either by the Kirin or by the censors, but that did not truly matter to him anymore. The news that the fort was all but cut off had seen him succumb to an almost crippling depression, for it seemed increasingly unlikely that he would see his ship and crewmates again, to say nothing of his brother, fighting on an unknown front, and his father, safe back at home with his early-winter flowers and shrubs and the library and the fireplace and all the accoutrements and pleasures of modern Equestrian society. Everything that was denied to the ponies trapped in Fort V.
Lacking any expedient to alleviate his spiraling depression, thanks to the Kirin's temporary refusal to directly assault the fort, Greenwood could only languish in the murk and the cold, like the rest of the garrison, freezing in the nights and chilled to the bone during the days. Winter was truly setting in over the Northwick peninsula now, with swirling flurries of snow being carried on almost every breeze, and howling sea-gales bringing sleet, hail and freezing rain in between blizzards. He did not envy the Kirin infantry, out in their trenches in the woods and on the low but exposed hillsides. They would be sitting in the biting teeth of every gale. At least he had walls of thick concrete surrounding him, though they did little to warm up the garrison, who huddled around the sputtering barrel-fires and fitfully purring electric heaters to drag every degree of warmth that they possibly could from the meagre heat sources. The mains electricity had been cut, presumably by the Kirin who must have destroyed the transmission poles or cut the wires, and fuel supplies for the backup diesel generators within the fort would no longer be coming either, as the rail line to the city was also in Kirin hands. The supplies they did have were being rationed, so as to provide lighting for the common areas and gun galleries. Heating, it seemed, was a secondary concern. So long as they could see their guns, they could fight, no matter how tired and cold they might be.
To be so close to the rest of civilization, such as it was, in Harmony Bay, and yet cut off entirely from it, almost immediately began to have a deleterious effect upon the morale of the garrison in Fort V. Greenwood was far from alone in harbouring such feelings of painful isolation. A sense of despondency spread rapidly among the ranks, especially the seaponies who had been seconded to the fort to man the additional guns. They were not meant to be in situations like this. The Navy fought at sea, not on the land, not in these concrete hellholes. There was resentment from those who had been unlucky enough to be picked for the tough duty, while the rest of their fellows from the Northern Fleet sat safe on their ships in the harbour, not even sallying forth to engage the Kirin ships any longer. Admiral Strongbow flat out refused to risk his fleet in another attack on the Kirin, who still had the numerical advantage and were just waiting for him to play his hand, or for their own Army gunners to drive the fleet out from the harbour for fear of being annihilated. If the second rank of forts were to fall, then that would become almost a certainty, for the Kirin could have free reign to deploy their heavy guns and install their observers in perfect positions to bombard the fleet.
Greenwood stomped his feet to keep them warm and walked out into the darkened corridor. The electric lights flickered fitfully whenever a shell landed nearby, making the whole fort look like something from the pages of a horror novel, of which he had a few in his collection aboard the Defiant. He wandered along, almost in a half-daze of blackness. Never before during his military service, at sea or on land, had he felt anything like this, and it scared him. It had been two weeks under Kirin fire, two weeks since they reached the fort, and the shelling had scarcely ceased during that time. Only the heavy downpours of rain had stifled the Kirin guns, and that was- what, a week ago? Ten days?
It was hard to keep track of time. Greenwood had a wristwatch, a gift from his uncle, but that was hard to read in the perpetual semi-darkness of the fortress, and it didn't tell him what the date was anyway. He imagined this was what life was like as a Diamond Dog or a Changeling drone, subterranean species who lived without natural light, sometimes for their entire lives. To try and prevent himself from slowly losing his mind, Greenwood had taken to regular walks around the interior of the fort, circling around its corridors, crossing the interior courtyard just to see the sky, before dipping back into the sepulchral atmosphere of the tunnels and chambers, where silent ponies sat or slept, nursing their own problems, their own fragile minds.
At least one pony had already snapped, though not, Greenwood had been pleased to note, one of the seaponies, but rather a member of the fort's original garrison. The shelling and the darkness and the deprivation had driven him mad enough to storm out of the underground tunnel entrance and into the trenches outside, despite the protestations of the guards. The trench-pickets had been unable, or unwilling, to prevent him climbing over the parapet and storming across no-pony's-land like a one-stallion army, shouting abuse and coarse language at the silent Kirin beyond, his wails of despair and anger echoing across the barren landscape. Greenwood had tracked his progress through the viewing periscope in the gun-gallery as the stallion hurled his helmet in the direction of the Kirin in a rage, crying his cuttingly simple questions, questions that remained unanswered.
Why? Why?
Why are you here? Why are we here? Why am I here?
The Kirin gave him no reply, save for the sudden rattle of at least two machine guns. His bloody, lifeless corpse still lay out in the snow, frozen both by the rictus of death and by the brutal winter. Everypony who had been watching with bated breath knew there was no other likely outcome for the poor stallion, unless the Kirin had felt like taking a low-ranking prisoner. The stallion, Greenwood mused to himself, must have known that truth, too. That was probably why he did what he did, like how a desperate pony would sometimes call the police on themselves in the hope that threatening the lives of the officers would lead to them performing the last fatal act that the pony could not bring themselves to complete.
Greenwood knew that at least he had a fallback, his own sidearm, if it came to that. Much easier to do the deed with than a rifle, as the officer who he had replaced aboard the Defiant had ably demonstrated when he smeared his brains across the bulkhead of his cabin. The deck sentry, it was reported, had found the poor bastard with the gun still in his mouth, gripped like a vice in his dead hands as he sat slumped back in his chair. The pressures of military service, combined with the intoxicating depressant he had been consuming in the form of an empty bottle of vodka, had been enough to drive him over the edge.
Greenwood didn't know what had caused the stallion to pull the trigger, but he could easily imagine such a situation arising from the predicament that Fort V was under. Though he very much liked his drink, Greenwood had never indulged in alcohol while on duty before, other than the customary tot of vodka when toasting the Princesses during meals in the officers' mess. A few days ago, that had changed. One of the army officers, a Lieutenant 2nd Class, matching his own rank in naval parlance of Junior Lieutenant, had offered him a bottle of locally-distilled vodka from the stores. The fort, he had said, had a plentiful supply. Nopony would notice and nopony would miss one bottle among literally thousands. The entire Regional Command, he had told Greenwood, was overstocked with alcohol of all kinds. A lot of it was produced locally, either by the pony settlers or the Yaks who had been distilling vodka and brewing beer for centuries, but even besides that, there was a tacit understanding at Regional Command and back home in Canterlot that ponies stationed in the more extreme corners of Equestrian territory needed a guaranteed morale booster in the form of a guaranteed alcohol ration, for there was little else to do by way of entertainment in some of the most remote bases, stations and military posts. Northwick and Harmony Bay certainly qualified for that assessment, and steady supplies sent from home as well as locally produced drink made sure that the garrison of the province and the sailors of the Northern Fleet were never short of a tipple. The rivers that ran through the province, the officer had joked, were not chill glacial water, but pure vodka.
Greenwood had accepted the proffered gift, just to cement Army-Navy relations, he told himself. That explained why he let the officer give him the bottle. It did not explain why he drank half of it that night. Twenty-four hours later, it was empty, and he went back for another bottle, though it shamed him to do so. The army officer said nothing as he handed it over, merely a nod that said I understand. Perhaps, Greenwood had thought at the time, that meant he was not the first pony the officer had plied with drink to satiate their mental anguish. His walks through the darkened corridors and tunnels quickly confirmed that, for he would often come across ponies slumped in corners, asleep in the happy haze of a drunken hour that would soon fade when they awoke. Others were still drinking, their bottles of hard cider, whiskey or vodka tucked beneath the blankets and greatcoats they wrapped around themselves to stave off the cold. Whether officer or enlisted, every pony would stiffen and bristle as Greenwood approached. He was an officer, and a navy one at that. Would he berate them, summon their army superiors, have them court-martialed for drinking while still, technically, on duty?
He did none of those things. Instead he simply walked on by, sometimes locking eyes with the offender for a few moments as he passed. He didn't want to linger long enough for them to notice the stench of liquor on his breath. For the same reason he tried his best to stay clear of anyone with more stars, pips or diamonds on their collar than he had- just like the soldiers who shied away from him, he did not know how a superior officer would react if they knew he was wandering the fortress drunk at night. The fort had a tiny brig for prisoners, but in truth the whole complex of drab concrete and unforgiving metal felt like one giant prison in itself. They were isolated, cut off, and alone, with only their fellow sufferers and the sound of shelling for company, trapped in purgatory, waiting to die.
"Stand to! Stand to! Up, up, get up!"
Greenwood scrambled from his cold bedroll, eyes darting too and fro. He felt for his automatic and sword, grasping them firmly in his hands. The gun-gallery was still dim and dull, though it must be morning by now. Whoever was on sentry duty must have alerted the fort, for the warning bells were trilling and there was the sound of running feet in the corridor outside.
His head ached lightly from the night before, when he had stumbled into bed after half a bottle. The viewports and firing ports of the gallery were flung open, brilliant beams of light bathing his eyes in temporary agony until he looked away, stars dancing in his vision. He hurried to the viewing periscope and peered through. Nothing seemed out of place, a light mist hanging just above the snow-strewn ground, but...wait, now there was something. Movement! Movement, out beyond the trenches.
Rifle fire suddenly began to crackle from the outer defences, followed by the heavy chatter of machine guns. The Kirin, the foreign devils, must be using the mist as cover to try and sneak up close to the fort.
"Get those guns ready!" Greenwood called to his crews, mostly seaponies but with a few soldiers thrown in. They prepped the guns for firing, making sure they were not frozen over from the night's chill, checking the powder charges, double-checking their rangefinders. The range markers out beyond the trenches were hidden by the mist, so they would have to take their own sightings when engaging the enemy.
Without warning, the field of view through Greenwood's periscope erupted into a tapestry of dirt and snow as a Kirin bombardment roared from the skies. They must be mad! Greenwood mused. Almost shelling their own soldiers! Mad, or perhaps supremely confident in the accuracy of their gunners. It was a clever ruse- lure the defenders out into their trenches with the visual evidence of an impending attack, only to pound them with heavy artillery. It had been tried before, but only when the Kirin had not actually been on the field of battle. This time they were perilously close to their own shellfire. If the ruse backfired, they might find themselves taking massive casualties without even reaching the fort, but if it worked...
"Sight those guns on our forward trenchline!" Greenwood shouted, drawing confused looks from his gun-captains. "You heard me!' he snapped. "If we're lucky you won't need to fire, but if the Sun and Moon aren't with us, then you're going to need every shell you can bring to hand." They complied, lowering the barrels of their guns from the more distant fire-marks they had been zeroed on. As the smoke cleared, Greenwood could see that his fear was being realised.
The front trench had been pounded hard, and there was almost no sign of anypony anywhere along the length of it that he could see. There were Kirin, though, clambering over the ruined parapet, dropping into the trench as sporadic rifle fire from the second and third-line trenches spat back at them. They did not look much like the regular Kirin in their khaki uniforms, for they were clad in dark-blue. Peering closer through the periscope, Greenwood could see that they were adorned with gear and equipment quite unlike the regulars; no simple rifle, pack and water canteen. Indeed most wore no pack at all, leaving their strong backs to carry other things. Most seemed to hold submachine guns, extra clips and grenades strapped all across their chests, their visored helmets making them look almost like the riot squads that the police deployed to break up violent demonstrations back home. Some had other gear, too- wire cutters, satchels that could well be explosives. These were no line infantry unit. They were shock infantry, stormtroopers outfitted for their mission with the best that the Kirin could provide. They were not here for a probing attack or a reconnaissance in force. They were here to take the fort.
Machine guns and defensive cannons were now firing from the fort itself, but the Kirin were already inside the trench network and thus protected from much of the incoming metal. Greenwood shouted an order to fire, and the four-inch guns hurled their shells at the lip of the forward trench. Some Kirin tumbled, their bodies broken, but others replaced them, and now coming along out of the mist behind the stormtroopers was a wave of khaki-clad regulars, at least a regiment of them.
"Shit...reload, fire!" Greenwood ordered. "Keep firing until I tell you otherwise! You!" he pointed to one of the seaponies. "Go find the Colonel, get his orders for Battery 4."
"Aye sir!" The seapony scurried away as the Kirin surged forward. Now they were meeting resistance at the second line of trenches, less badly affected by the shelling. Squads of Equestrian soldiers were blocking their way. Grenades were being hurled in both directions and vicious close combat developing before Greenwood's eyes as he looked through the periscope. To the right, he could see ponies firing from behind stacks of wooden ammunition boxes in one of the large mortar pits. A few Kirin were advancing on them, and before any of the ponies could react, they were engulfed in flames.
Greenwood blinked in surprise, his eyes glued to the periscope. He felt his heart lurch. Something flammable had not been struck by a stray bullet. This was fire as a weapon. One of the Kirin, in contrast to most of his compatriots, had a bulky object strapped to his back. Instead of a gun, he held a hose-like contraption, and from its nozzle spewed flame, igniting all it touched. The ponies rapidly found their cover was as flammable as they were, and panicked. Several broke and ran from the onslaught of flame, while others closer to the Tartarus-spawned weapon were caught in its blast, their skin, fur and clothing igniting, turning them into living torches. Even over the din of battle, their horrifying screams reached his ears, or at least he imagined they did. He could see them thrashing about, tumbling to the ground and rolling in a desperate attempt to put out the flames that were consuming them. One pony climbed out of the trench and dove into a snowbank, putting out the fire but being riddled with bullets from the advancing Kirin regulars instead. At least one other was put out of his misery by a Kirin soldier who put a bullet through his head in an act of mercy before resuming his advance behind the flamethrower.
"By Celestia..." Greenwood muttered to himself. "These devils have no magic of their own, so they have to create evils like that instead?" He slammed the concrete wall with a balled fist in rage and horror. if the Kirin got their flamethrowers to the fortress itself, the results scarcely bore thinking about. More soldiers from the garrison were taking up positions in the third and final line of trenches, but it was the numerous machine guns in the fort itself that were doing the damage, mowing down dozens of Kirin regulars as they advanced to support their shock troops. There could be no accurate, sudden barrage to subdue those guns, for they were safe behind thick concrete walls which days of bombardment had failed to penetrate. They would have to be taken by force, by storm, and by fire from inside.
With his battery's guns blazing, Greenwood had little else to do but continue to look through the periscope. The Kirin were still making progress; much further and they would be able to hurl grenades through the firing apertures of the gun-gallery and threaten the lives of his crews. Despite the flamethrower and the firepower of the shock troopers and their submachine guns, however, they were slowly bogging down, their rate of advance stagnating as the fortress woke and bristled, like a porcupine with its quills. Their initial attack had succeeded in taking the fort partly by surprise and gaining them significant ground, letting them seize the first two trench lines with relative ease and limited casualties. Gaining entry into the fort itself, however, would be far more costly for both sides.
"Any news on our port, Minister?"
Princess Celestia breezed into the war-room, her white robes flowing like a cloud around her legs, her mane and tail trailing along behind.
"Yes, Your Highness. Alas, nothing good," Copperhead replied. The veteran Defence Minister hated these early meetings. Somepony of his age should be casually perusing the newspaper over toast and tea at this hour, still clad in warm slippers and dressing gown. Celestia's sun had barely even risen over Canterlot. Up in the frozen wastes of Northwick, it would not do so until near noon local time. Travel much farther north than that, and it would not rise at all for months, until winter's chill grip upon the hemisphere had relaxed and spring was well in bloom across the rest of the continent.
"Fill me in, Minister," Celestia ordered, pouring herself a steaming cup of breakfast tea from a gaudy samovar nearby. Only now could Copperhead fill his own cup, for such was the etiquette of palace life.
"The Kirin have taken the majority of the first line of forts that protect Harmony Bay," Copperhead explained for her. "Fort V, the central fort of the first line, is still resisting. The second line of forts is currently intact, but the Kirin artillery is now well within range of them. Their attentions have naturally shifted to bombarding the second line while trying to subdue the remaining resistance from Fort V. As per our latest report from Harmony Bay, the city itself is not yet under fire from land-based artillery, but..."
"But they are expecting it imminently, I would imagine?" Celestia interrupted, before taking a sip of her tea. "The Kirin's aim appears to be the capture of the city and the destruction of the fleet. In all probability, one of those would lead to the other. Which, in your estimation, is the most likely to happen?"
"I believe the destruction of the fleet is most likely, Your Highness," Copperhead replied. "The city can only be captured by a direct infantry assault, and that requires the Kirin to reduce the remaining fortresses, overcome them. However they do not need to take the forts to bring their guns in range of the harbour. Once they do that, it will give Admiral Strongbow a dilemma which he will not relish. Stay sitting in port while Kirin observers direct their artillery onto his ships, or sail out of range, but straight into the teeth of the Kirin navy."
"In other words, there are two methods by which the Northern Fleet might be destroyed," Celestia nodded. "But only one way the Kirin will take the city. Can the forces in the city possibly retake the front line of forts? Push the Kirin back out of artillery range of the fleet?"
"I am not confident, Your Highness," General Snow Meadow spoke up. The Army Chief of Staff had let Copperhead take the lead thus far, but this question was about the army, her specific realm. "General Wild Willow says that she will attempt local counterattacks where possible, but the Kirin are there to stay unless we can mount an assault from their rear."
"And how are things progressing with regards to assembling a force to relieve the city?" Celestia asked.
"Slowly, Your Highness," Snow Meadow replied regretfully. "We are still looking at a timeframe of weeks, minimum. Even that will be a relatively limited force, but it should be capable of causing the Kirin some trouble. As more units arrive from other provinces, we will be able to enact a full-scale counterattack upon their rear and hopefully break their backs."
"I hope so," Celestia nodded. "We need some good news. What of the Home Fleet?"
"Last radio contact with the fleet placed them approximately ninety miles west of the city of New Zebrica," Copperhead informed her. "Admiral Blueblood intends to coal there and regroup. His ships are still strung out after the hurricane."
"And their losses?"
"One collier lost in the storm, and one battleship and a tanker sunk by enemy action, Your Highness."
"A submarine, I gather?" Celestia questioned.
"Apparently so," Copperhead nodded. "Much to Admiral Blueblood's disquiet. I believe he underestimated the Kirin's capacity for long-range operation, as did we all. Though he prudently ran the fleet without navigation lights and with minimal radio chatter, they must have known where he would be. Lying in wait."
"Spies along the route," Snow Meadow suggested, and Copperhead nodded.
"Almost certainly. At every port, the Kirin will have agents. Hard to detect, especially if they have recruited locals to do their dirty work, like that fellow who tried to blow you up, Your Highness."
"So when the fleet reaches New Zebrica..." Celestia's brow creased.
"The Kirin will know even before they drop anchor," Copperhead nodded.
New Zebrica was a bustling port at the northern fringe of the tropics. Flat-bottomed boats and small sailing ships plied the harbour, transporting all manner of exotic local goods; fruits, silk, spices. The city itself was constantly shrouded in a light pall of smoke, like the parlour of some cigar-loving baron, as a thousand small fires burned, smoking meats, heating water for leather-tanning, cooking simple meals for Zebra families. The terracotta and stucco buildings were gaily colourful, a cheery warmth being lent to the city by their appearance.
As if it needed any more warmth.
New Zebrica was on a similar latitude to Mare-Isle, and like that island it possessed a hot climate, but whereas Mare-Isle was a dry heat, fed by the deserts, New Zebrica was a sweltering wet heat. The humidity could rise to stultifying levels, like standing watch in a ship's boiler room. The Zebras, local to the area, were used to it, adapted to the conditions. Ponies were not.
The Home Fleet steamed into this ostensibly-neutral but Equestrian-aligned port two days after the hurricane. Repairs began almost immediately. Ships, especially the more elderly vessels, which had already travelled thousands of miles and come through a rough beating needed boiler maintenance, condenser cleaning, repairs to the engines. Broken gaskets and leaky pipes needed to be fixed, for any loss of pressure or steam would drag down the top speed of any ship, large or small. Broken searchlights, damaged panelling, torn lines and smashed windows needed dealing with, all external damage from the storm which has lashed and scratched at the armoured hulls of even the largest vessels like a vindictive cat with its claws extended.
Blueblood ordered two light cruisers, the Revenge and the Superior, to patrol outside the harbour, and left a quartet of destroyers as an outer picket line in case the Kirin should suddenly spring up from nowhere and try to launch an attack on the fleet in port, as they had done at Harmony Bay. The Admiral had no desire to be caught with his proverbial pants down, as his opposite number in the Northern Fleet had been. He never had liked Strongbow much- the other, older Admiral was too businesslike for his more metropolitan mind, focused on war, war, war, even when at peace.
We are Admirals, Blueblood, for Celestia's sake, he had once said at a cocktail party in the palace several years ago. We're meant to fight, not dance.
But what is naval combat if not a graceful ballet? Blueblood had replied. Neither of them had ever been involved in a major fleet engagement before.
New Zebrica's heat began to hit the crews as soon as they got to work with one of the most pressing tasks; taking on more coal. This was vital, especially with the loss of one of the collier ships in the storm. Though the fleet had left Manehattan with every empty nook and cranny filled with sacks of coal, they had burned through all of it, and more besides, having taken on additional stores at two previous coaling stops along the southern Equestrian coastline. The fleet had a gluttonous appetite for the black gold of fossil fuels, both in solid and liquid form. The destroyers and other smaller craft had mostly made the switch to oil to run their boilers, which gave greater efficiency, higher top speed, and less need for huge storage capacity aboard for great quantities of fuel, with coal bunkers being great hefty chambers below decks on the larger vessels. The capital ships, however, still relied on coal, even the newer ones like Chevaline.
That meant backbreaking work, lugging sacks of coal from the dockside or transferring them from colliers, hauling them below, filling the bunkers with fresh fuel. It was hot work too, under the blazing sun and in the moist, humid atmosphere. Where their uniforms had been soaked with seawater two days earlier, now the crews were soaked with sweat, equally as stinging and salty as it dripped into their eyes. It was worst of all below decks, where the metal hulls of the ships amplified the heat and stilled the air. There was no cooling breeze to be found, though many crewponies pressed their faces against open portholes or vents in the desperate hope of locating one.
When informed of the conditions, Blueblood, sitting at his desk in his cabin, electric fan whirring, iced glass of a fine vintage whiskey in one hand and a book in the other, told his Flag-Captain;
"Surely our sailors do not want us to be stuck here any longer than necessary? The more they complain, the longer we will be in this damn fetid hole. Tell them to work harder, damn their eyes!"
Champagne Crown, reluctantly, returned topside and relayed the signal, though in more delicate and diplomatic language, to every ship in the fleet.
Admiral orders redoubling of efforts. Fleet to get underway ASAP. Take aboard all necessary supplies.
There were grumblings, angry chatter among the crews, especially of the big battleships and battlecruisers. They had the most coal of all to load aboard, while some of their more tactless officers set up a pristine white awning on the fantail of the battleship Luna and invited Blueblood aboard for a kind of afternoon picnic, with champagne delicately served in flutes and caviar on hand, followed by pleasant games of bridge and whist and even a round of croquet, with hoops ingeniously formed from broken inks of anchor chain.
While the officers and their Admiral lunched beneath the protective awning, the tired, aching, sweating stokers and labourers continued their work in the hot sun, collapsing from heat stroke and exhaustion. As the evening came they expected some respite, but Blueblood ordered them to work until nine that night. Only then would he allow his crews to be served their dinner- no champagne or caviar for them, but merely buckwheat porridge and a roasting-hot vegetable broth, delivered in great pails by the cooks who had been refused permission to prepare something cool and refreshing, simply because, according to the Admiral, it was midweek, and vegetable broth and buckwheat porridge was always served midweek.
The next day, the coaling continued. It was another hot day, even stickier and close than the day before and conducive only to lying in the shade and drinking plenty of lemonade. With many of the crew on the sick-roll due to exhaustion and severe sunburn, Blueblood contacted the dockyard authorities of New Zebrica. A gruff but sincere Zebra stallion, the dockmaster, came aboard the Chevaline and told the Admiral he could provide five hundred Zebra labourers for an appropriate fee. Blueblood agreed, opening the fleet's purse and paying twenty bits' wages for each Zebra for the day.
Word got around the fleet fast. Ordinary Seaponies, the lowest rank and the rank which made up the bulk of those doing the hard labour, got ten bits per day, of which two were immediately docked for 'board and keep,' to pay for uniforms and to donate to each ship's petty cash, which could be used, depending on the whims of her captain, to purchase necessities or treats when in foreign ports. Spare parts or coal could be obtained if needed, and special rations were common purchases, to keep crews happy- chocolate, spirits, cigarettes, local delicacies, candy.
The fact that these Zebra labourers were being paid more than twice as much for a day's work than the seaponies received was a fact rapidly disseminated to each bunkroom and hammock. Mumbles and mutterings of discontent spread even faster than disease aboard a ship, and by the afternoon every pony knew about this outrage. The Admiral, not content to browbeat his sailors into working themselves to exhaustion, had the gall to contract their job out to some random Zebrican dockhands because they weren't working fast enough for his liking, and then to add insult to an already considerable injury, he had decided to pay them twice as much.
The mood of the fleet quickly turned sour. There had already been considerable discontent from the length of their voyage and the feeling of sailing to an unknown fate, to say nothing of Blueblood's abrasive leadership style, as Defence Minister Copperhead would have described it. For many, this was the last straw.
The next morning was meant to be the final one in port. The outer roadstead of New Zebrica was crowded with warships, and though technically the neutral port was only meant to allow three warships from any foreign power to dock at any one time, the local mayor had chosen to ignore those requirements of international law on two grounds; most of the fleet stayed in the outer anchorages, thus not technically entering the port itself, and Blueblood had a hell of a lot of big guns under his command.
The fleet's next port of call was meant to have been the Griffon-controlled city of Bridgeport, but the Griffons had taken absolute neutrality in the conflict and, unlike the Zebricans, they were no friends of Equestria. Thus the safe harbour and coaling facilities of Bridgeport were closed to the Home Fleet, which was why Blueblood was so desperate to load up every sack of coal he could lay his hands on with fleet funds. The loss of one of their own collier ships was a bad blow, given the distance they would have to travel to the next Equestrian anchorage at Summertown. Blueblood had tried to charter Zebrican collier ships to accompany him, but given that they were sailing into a warzone, the Zebrican government had no desire to risk its own merchant ships being sunk by the Kirin. If Kirin aims were indeed greater than merely reconquering Northwick and Yakyakistan, that might also give them a legitimate reason to declare war on Zebrica, something else that was to be avoided.
Ultimately, Blueblood had no choice but to load his own ships to the brim with coal, even loading some onto destroyers that had no need for the stuff. Coal dust hung in the air, a thicker, darker contrast to the woodsmoke that usually rested in a comfortable pall over the city. The faces and hands and uniforms of the crew were caked in it. The decks were black with it. The unused lower decks of the hospital ship Peace were filled with it. So were the lungs of those who had hauled the sacks and shovelled the coal into the bunkers.
The battleship Royal Oak was a first-rate vessel, one of the newer Royalty-Class, fully armoured like the Chevaline and outfitted with four turrets, two twelve-inch guns in each, plus a multitude of secondary armaments. Her crew of over one thousand ponies were decent sailors, decent gunners and more than decent drinkers, when it was allowed. Like every other vessel, their rations of alcohol had been cut by Blueblood's fleetwide order before leaving Manehattan. They had spent the last three days lugging coal and breathing in the dust, turning their tongues and lips black. They had watched the fleet's senior officers partying on the rear deck of the Luna, moored beside the Royal Oak in the roadstead. They had suffered under the iron discipline of the battleship's first officer, Sawtooth. They had endured the seasickness and the cold and the heat. And now, they had finally had enough.
It began a little before noon, when the sailors loading coal were expecting sweet lemonade and bread with marmalade to be brought around to quench their already prodigious thirst and tiredness. Zebras in little canoes and flat-bottomed boats were clustered alongside the mighty warship, offering exotic fruits with outstretched hands and claims of great qualities. This one will make you fuck for hours! Try this sunfruit, it makes your hair grow back!
There were papayas and guavas, pineapples and kumquats, dragonfruit and Zebrican plums and mangoes, all just out of reach. Lower a basket! the Zebras cried. A basket and money, and we'll send them up to you.
"We're getting fed soon!" one of the seaponies called back down. Except they didn't. The lemonade and bread and marmalade didn't arrive, because the captain, Sawtooth, decided to run a readiness drill for the rest of the crew, including the mess-deck ponies, while the labourers were at work hauling coal. Noon came and went. Grumpy seaponies, angered by the lack of sustenance, decided to lower a tin bucket with a bunch of bits in to the Zebras below. They shared the money among themselves and tossed fruits of all kinds into the bucket, ready to be hauled back up.
Once that was done, the exhausted crews gorged themselves on the fresh, ripe fruits, sticky juices running down their coal-stained chests and shirts. Only then did one of the inattentive officers, Lieutenant Prancer, spot what was going on. She loudly berated the crew for slacking off, lazing around.
"Get back to work, you dogs!" she had cried. "I hope you didn't pay for those fruits from ship's funds! Now get moving! The Admiral wants this coal loaded by sundown!"
"Then he can come down here and load it himself, the fat bastard!" somepony shouted, which brought a loud cheer from the resting crew. Prancer's green face turned a deep red, veins almost popping out on her forehead. How dare they insult their Admiral? Didn't they know he was leading them on a vital mission? Insubordination would be, nay, must be punished, she told them. She ordered them back to work. They refused. Fuming, she went to fetch the captain. By the time they returned, the insubordination had become a mutiny.
Gathering their supporters from other work gangs and loading parties, the two ringleaders, Chief Petty Officers Supercharge and Cinnamon Prairie, had been busy. They had downed tools and moved to occupy key positions on board the battleship; the anchor rooms and engine rooms to prevent the ship from leaving, and the forward armoury, where they had gathered rifles and pistols. When Captain Starhunter arrived on the main deck, he had already unknowingly lost control of his vessel.
They were sick and tired of the conditions, the mutineers explained to their superior officer, brought before them like a captain's mast in reverse, where rule-breakers would be brought before their leader to receive punishments that could range from minor to capital. Mutiny, Starhunter pointedly reminded them, was punishable by death. The two petty officers explained that it was not a mutiny, not really. It was more a kind of general strike.
"If it's a strike," Starhunter asked laconically, "why do you need rifles?"
The two stallions explained to their captain that it was merely insurance, to make sure their demands were heard. In truth they had nothing personal against Starhunter- he was a patient and understanding officer, unlike Sawtooth, his deputy. It was the Admiral they detested, plus a few junior officers aboard the Royal Oak, Sawtooth and Lieutenant Prancer included, who followed in Blueblood's authoritarian mould. The mutineers knew that Starhunter would have been receptive to their suggestions under normal circumstances, but this whole mission, they contended, was a fool's errand. The fleet was sailing into the teeth of who knows what? They had already started losing ships and they were thousands of miles from Harmony Bay.
"Think of whom you serve," Starhunter had reminded them. "Not me, nor the Admiral. Remember who ordered this voyage."
But the Princess, they contended, was even further away than their target. The lives of every pony aboard every ship in the Home Fleet was at risk. Many had already been lost. They were one battleship down, leaving five- the Chevaline, the Luna, the Sol Invictus, the Royal Oak and the rickety old Avenger. They still had their three battlecruisers, the Fearless, the Triumph and the Duke of Baltimare. But how many capital ships did the Kirin have? At least ten, from the reports out of Harmony Bay. They may well have been reinforced by now with even more battleships and battlecruisers, as they knew the Home Fleet was on its way. Surely, the petty officers argued, they were steaming into a distant trap?
Starhunter may have privately agreed with their assessment, and with their assertion that it was all a vainglorious attempt by Blueblood to gain the respect and the notice of the Princess, to raise his standing at court and in high society; but still, it had not been Blueblood who had ordered them to sail. It had been Celestia, and her word was law.
"If we can't turn back, then, at least let us rest," Cinnamon Prairie requested. "A day's rest, and resumption of the full alcohol ration. Give us some pay to spend in the port."
The requests might have seemed reasonable if the mutineers were not in control of the ship already. Starhunter told them it was not in his hands; since they were sailing as part of the fleet, then the fleet's commander was ultimately in charge of such issues, and Blueblood would hardly rescind his own order on halving the alcohol rations to appease some troubled sailors who were protesting against his own leadership.
After a short discussion, the matter was settled for them, and not through talking. As part of their rebellion, the mutineers had 'struck the colours' of the Royal Oak, lowering her Equestrian ensigns, normally a sign of surrender. In this case they did so symbolically, to indicate that they were no longer sailing for the state, but for themselves, at least temporarily until they got what they wanted. This symbolic gesture was noticed by an alert lookout on board the Luna, riding at anchor several hundred yards away. Within ten minutes, Blueblood was on the bridge of the Chevaline, angrily speaking into the radio and demanding to know the meaning of this slight against the Princess and Equestria.
"Starhunter, what the devil are you playing at over there?" the Admiral roared. When curtly informed that the captain was not present on the bridge, he demanded to know his whereabouts. The reply made him have to struggle with himself to refrain from smashing the radio handset against the bulkhead until it shattered.
"This vessel is no longer under the command of Captain Starhunter. This vessel is an independently-flagged ship that recognises no nation and serves no greater master, only the consensus of its own crew. Until our demands are met, this vessel will remain so."
"Mutiny!" Blueblood spat, half-laughing as he turned to his Flag-Captain. "Crown, get a boat out to the Royal Oak. No, make it two...three! At least three boats with marines. Take that ship back, damn it, and hang the bastards responsible!"
Champagne Crown swiftly obeyed, seeing blood behind his Admiral's eyes. Whether it was anger at their mutiny against the Princess, or against him, Crown was not entirely sure. Given the parlous state of the fleet's morale, it paid to be quick about tamping down on this insurrection and stopping it from becoming anything more serious, and Captain Crown had the word passed to the Luna and the battlecruiser Fearless to lower boats and send their marines over to the Royal Oak.
When the boats were rowed and motored over toward the battleship, they were fired upon by rifles and machine guns from the deck; just warning shots, kicking up strings of splashes in the water ahead of the boats' bows. The marines in their boats had their rifles, but if the mutineers were willing to use their machine guns, then not a single pony would make it on board. The boats withdrew to a safe distance. Blueblood, practically tearing his hair out with anger, ordered the Luna to train her twelve-inch forward gun turrets on the Royal Oak.
"To think it has come to this!" the Admiral raged. "Aiming my guns at one of my own ships! The Kirin won't even need to meet us if we are fighting amongst ourselves!"
Over the radio, the mutineers reiterated their demands. They wanted to go home, to turn back, to save the fleet from the disaster they were certain would befall them. Blueblood dismissed that out of hand. The fleet would not be turning back unless the Sun herself were to order it. They would be continuing, with or without the mutinous Royal Oak. He made that clear to the two ringleaders, Chief Petty Officers Cinnamon Prairie and Supercharge. If necessary, he told them, the fleet would open fire on the vessel.
Only a relatively small part of the battleship's crew, however, actually sided with the mutineers. Those who dissented had been corralled together and locked up in the ship's brig, the officers' wardroom, and the mess deck, under armed guard. The mutineers were worried they might try a counter-uprising, and those loyal to Starhunter and the Admiral outnumbered them. It had only been surprise that had enabled them to take control, a relatively spontaneous act when it came down to it, though there had been mutterings and secret meetings between members of the crew for weeks prior. Such meetings, Supercharge now informed Blueblood, had not been limited to ponies of the Royal Oak. Others among the fleet held similar views.
Blueblood angrily dismissed them as traitors and disloyalists, both to himself and to the Princess who had dispatched them on this mission. Personal feelings of danger did not matter; they were in the service of the Sun. They were not pirates or mercenaries, whose whims could change based on the prevailing winds, who could scatter in the face of danger or simply decide not to take on a certain contract.
"We are all sailors, damn your eyes!" Blueblood snarled. "And we sail for Celestia!"
The two ringleaders came to an agreement, finally, after hours of staring down the barrels of the Luna's big guns. Take those who want to leave, put them ashore. Let them choose their path; stay in New Zebrica and live with the locals, take up positions with local shipping lines to work on board their freighters, or head home to Equestria. Out of the question, the Admiral stated.
He then offered a counter-compromise; the mutineers would be arrested, but would not, he promised, be hanged or shot. They would be loaded on board a chartered freighter, under armed guard, and sailed back to Manehattan along with the fleet's medical cases, a number of ponies who had succumbed to tropical diseases, accident, or after-effects from the hurricane. There, they would be subject to naval discipline for the lesser charges of insubordination and disobeying lawful orders, but at least they would be away from the fleet, which would please Blueblood, and no longer on the voyage that they were sure was heading for disaster. After more consideration, the mutineers took a vote among themselves. They agreed.
Luna's guns were swung away, the mutineers put down their rifles, and the loyalist members of the Royal Oak's crew rounded them up, ready for the marines to come and take them away. Blueblood half considered having them shot anyway, but the words of the ringleaders rang in his ears. These secret meetings were not just confined to the Royal Oak. If that was true, and he executed the mutineers as he certainly should have done under naval law, then he might be facing a larger problem. No, this compromise was best, though it pained him to see the traitors loaded onto a Zebrican freighter the next day, a freighter which he had been forced to expend some of the fleet's money to charter, no less. But it was one less pain to worry about. What concerned him more was the enemy and the fleet's readiness to face them.
The mutineers were replaced by shuffling small numbers of crewponies from other ships to fill the key roles of those who had been arrested. Zebrican dockhands and itinerant sailors who lacked a ship had been rounded up from dockside with the promise of steady work and decent pay to fill in the rest of the empty spaces on the fleet's duty rosters. Carefully, with destroyers sweeping ahead with hydrophones and Pegasi observers, the fleet sailed out the following morning. Zebras came to line the quays and watch, and no doubt there were a few Kirin spies somewhere, watching from a window or concealed among the civilians.
After the noon bell rang and lunch had been eaten, Blueblood ordered gunnery practice for the entire fleet. The Luna towed a target raft a thousand yards behind it for the Chevaline to fire at. The action stations alarm was sounded, and the gun crews rushed to their positions. The huge twelve-inch turrets were swung about, the secondary batteries loaded and trained, the four and six-inch tertiary armament prepared and their gun ports opened. At Blueblood's command, they opened fire with a full broadside.
The thunder of guns made the mighty warship creak and groan like a dilapidated old house in a gale. The Chevaline was practically lost to sight in a huge grey cloud of smoke that drifted back over the vessel in the slight breeze, obscuring the rangefinders and fire control nest, perched atop a large tripod mast above the bridge. Her guns expended a total of two-hundred-and-six practice shells over half an hour's firing. They hit the target raft twice.
The rest of the fleet was no less shambolic in its performance. The Sol Invictus was the standout star, having won the fleet gunnery competition for the last two years running and now under the command of Vice-Admiral Moonshot, despite the apparent dichotomy between her name and the name of her new vessel. They struck their target raft, towed by the Royal Oak, thirty times. The Royal Oak in turn didn't hit hers at all.
Blueblood was dismayed by the dire performance of his gunners. He knew full well that the ratio of hits to misses in modern naval combat was low; there were a multitude of factors in play, such as the speed of the target, the wind, sea state, visibility, and more besides. But the fleet had done terribly in this training exercise, on a calm millpond-sea.. The rafts had been chugging along in the wake of their tow-ships at a steady ten knots. They had not been manoeuvring, or making smoke, or taking evasive action. There were no torpedoes, no shells coming their way. Yet still they had been firing like drunks at a fairground shooting gallery. How would they fare when they met the Kirin?
After a few stiff whiskies and much pondering late that evening, Blueblood went to bed, a lot less sure of his impending victory than he had been before they had arrived at New Zebrica.
Dear brother,
We have won ourselves a victory out here! A small one perhaps, when we look back on it later, but it is a first blow against these invaders. The Yakfrost Pass has held, and the Kirin are on the run, at least for now. We are advancing steadily, regaining some lost ground. Naturally I cannot add much more than that, for our regimental censor is quite diligent in his or her duties. Suffice it to say, we are coming for you, brother. Wherever you are right now, know that help is on the way. How long it will take to arrive, I cannot tell you, but it is coming.
It is damnably cold up here in the mountains. I hope you are warmer than I am, though I doubt it. Nowhere in this Sun-forsaken land seems to be warm. At least your ship has heating that might actually work! Steam from the boilers, isn't it? Ah, to be in a boiler room or some other fine place, just to be warm for a few minutes!
I hear that uncle has finally been appointed Rear-Admiral. About damn time, I say! I know he was content to stay in the Manehattan Squadron, but he deserves this promotion. Such a hard worker and a kind and nurturing soul. I hope we shall see him again soon, and father too. But it is you I miss the most, my dear brother.
Until we meet again,
Greenshield
Another letter written. Greenshield's unit did, at least, have a functioning mail service, for they had access to the outside world. After the victory at Yakfrost, he had written several letters, one to his father, one to his uncle and one to his brother. The first of those would be easy enough to deliver; down the line aboard the evening mail train, all the way to some sorting office, thence onward to a civilian dispatch centre, eventually finding itself inside the mailbag of some postmare or other. A message to his uncle would be a bit trickier. Green Haze's promotion had been announced quite publicly and his appointment to command the Third Division of the Home Fleet had been mentioned in the papers and over the military radio station which provided news and light entertainment to units and bases. A letter to the Home Fleet would require a bit of luck and good timing to be delivered while they were actually in some port or other and not sailing on the open ocean, unreachable. The letter to his brother, the one he wanted delivered the most, would be pretty much impossible to get through.
He pondered over it as they marched southeast, letting his mind wander to distract from his ill-fitting boots and the winter chill that gnawed at him through his winter jacket and scarf and gloves. He doubted if Greenwood would actually receive the letter; maybe after the war, it would show up fluttering through his letterbox back home. He knew that occasional ships of the Equestrian merchant marine were trying to, and sometimes succeeding in, running the Kirin blockade and delivering vital supplies to Harmony Bay, which included mail. But several cargo ships had already been sunk in the attempt, their brave crews drowned or captured as a result, and there was no other physical link between Harmony Bay and the rest of Equestria. He had addressed the letter to Junior Lieutenant Greenwood, abd. ENS Defiant, Northern Fleet, Harmony Bay. He had no idea that his older brother was not aboard his ship. He was in Tartarus.
The interior of Fort V no longer even resembled anything military. It was a morgue, all clinical concrete and metal and death.
Greenwood sat half-slumped in a corner, a mostly empty bottle of vodka clutched in his hand. All he could smell was cordite and blood, for they were practically the only smells that still existed in this strange, compressed little world. His hand shook as he raised it to swig the liquid, as much to clear his throat as to feel the hot kiss of alcohol pouring down it.
For the last four days, while the Home Fleet had been desperately coaling in New Zebrica and fighting off rebellion in its midst, the Kirin had been hurling themselves at Fort V. Their guns pounded an incessant drumbeat, hammering the thick earth and concrete roof, pounding at the walls like a wolf trying to get inside. When the artillery stopped, the Kirin came again, ghostly flames of anger enveloping their bodies, their eyes glowing white, their guns chattering. They came once a day, at least, and on the third day, they had finally breached the fort, bursting through a heavily defended breach in one of the walls, caused by the Kirin's railway gun or whatever monstrous cannon they had out there behind their line.
Their flamethrowers had led the charge, just behind a rain of grenades, and for the next day all Greenwood could smell had been burning flesh. The breach was not far from the gun-gallery where he had been stationed with his ad-hoc crew of sailors and soldiers; the smell had wafted through the ventilation ducts. Not long after that, they had been pulled back and redeployed, abandoning the guns after setting off thermal charges to burn through their barrels and render them useless to the Kirin. The enemy was inside; they could not be allowed to progress any deeper into the complex. The fort must hold, and so long as there were ponies alive inside, it would.
Now that the outer works had finally and definitively fallen, it was the turn of Equestrian gunners to open up on Fort V. With their own troops inside the thick concrete, it was only Kirin that they would find with their shells, and they hammered away at the former no-pony's-land to try and impede the enemy bringing up reinforcements and supplies. Inside the fort, things had rapidly descended into Tartarus.
In the narrow, cramped tunnels, hallways and galleries, pony and Kirin had locked horns. It was combat of the most primitive order; there was no grand sweeping strategy here, just guns and knives, fists and feet, clubs, cudgels, the sharp edge of an entrenching tool. The Kirin led with their flamethrowers; the ponies countered with their magic, hurling crackling bolts of lightning in every hue of the rainbow, depending on which unicorn was firing. When the Kirin were advancing down a narrow tunnel, the Equestrians would station several Pegasi at the other end to flap their wings in unison as hard as they could, creating an effect very much like walking down an alleyway in a hurricane. The Kirin, unable to advance against the winds, would fire their guns at random. Grenades were hurled in copious quantities; each Kirin stormtrooper carried at least three, and some of the regular infantry would bring up crates filled with them from the rear, so that the supply never ran out. The concussive effects of repeated explosions in the cramped confines of the fort were devastating. Ponies found their lungs bursting from the overpressure, their eyeballs leaking blood, the air sucked from their throats, their ears ringing, half-deaf and half-mad with fear.
Greenwood and his ponies had been repositioned to one of the interior corridors, just off of the generator room that powered one wing of the fort. Here, behind sandbagged barricades, they positioned themselves to make their stand. Ammunition was plentiful, and a machine gun had been set up to cover the hallways. One led from the breached chamber, and another branched across it from one of the ammunition supply rooms that fed the heavy-calibre guns. Gunfire had rattled from up ahead for some time before ragged survivors began to stagger down the hallway, uniforms soaked in blood, torn and frayed from shrapnel. One unicorn came levitating the charred but still groaning corpse of one of his fellow soldiers whose identity was unknown to the horrified sailors, partly due to being from a different unit and partly because most of his, or her, face and mane had been burned away, a hideous red and black mass of fused and knotted tissue replacing it. The medical station to the rear in the belly of the fort would do what it could, but that would amount to little more than injecting a couple of vials of morphine and offering a quick prayer to Celestia.
The Kirin had come an hour later, pushing and probing, flamethrowers leapfrogging from cover to scant cover. The corridor itself had been stripped of anything that might offer protection, and there were only a few protruding pillars and pipes, as well as a mount of rubble where a section of the ceiling had caved in. The Equestrian shooting had been murderous, cutting down dozens of Kirin, the machine gun working its way rhythmically across the hall from one wall to the other, then swinging back again, and again, until it had to be reloaded. After a brief pause, the killing began again.
The Kirin had suddenly burst forth from the other tunnel, charging forward, eyes ablaze with white-heat, a cold fire burning around their bodies, war cries on their lips. Accurate rifle fire slowed them, bodies tumbling, but they made it almost to the barricades before the machine gun could be turned about and brought to bear. This allowed the Kirin in the other tunnel to push forward in turn, dividing the attentions of the defenders. Reinforcements were rushed forward, a platoon of infantry with submachine guns and grenades, and the fort had echoed to the sounds of bloody, relentless combat for the next three hours. Only then did the Kirin finally withdraw, leaving their dead slumped over the barricades and curled up in the tunnels, blood running like rivers into the drainage runoff cut into the middle of each hallway like a shallow trench.
The next day passed in much the same fashion, with the Kirin launching assaults not just on the same spot as the day before, but also against the other wing of the fort, trying to push across the central courtyard. They had been repelled, but it had cost the defenders almost fifty casualties. They were ponies that the defenders could ill-afford to lose, cut off as they were from any direct reinforcement. The Kirin, meanwhile, continued to move up reinforcements, using the Equestrian's own railway against them, that single track to safety that no longer brought mail or supplies or visitors to the city, but merely more and more invaders each day. With the fleet still bottled up in Harmony Bay, and their occasional small patrols being harried and pursued by Kirin ships until they returned to port, nopony had been able to interdict the flow of Kirin transports that were still ferrying soldiers and materiel over from their homeland. The navy had dispatched several submarines to the area, and two transports, unbeknownst to the fort's defenders, had actually been sunk, but Kirin destroyers had chased the Equestrian boats away, sinking one and forcing the other three to skulk about out of range of detection, but also out of range of their targets.
The Kirin assault was repulsed, the survivors crawling back into the depths of the fort, and an uneasy stalemate had developed as darkness fell in the mid-afternoon. The Kirin occupied portions of the underground, some key corridors and chambers, including one of the large armouries and some of the sleeping quarters. The Equestrians still held most of the fortress, however. After dark, a party of Kirin tried to sneak around and attack the fort from the rear. Finding the main entrance heavily guarded, they attempted to cut through barbed wire for a better approach. To the eternal regret of the Kirin with the wirecutters, the protective barrier had been electrified, and until two of his fellows pried him away with a broken tree branch they found, he slowly cooked as the deadly current ran through him. A hailstorm of fire from machine guns then drove the rest of the Kirin away at the cost of eight dead, including the unfortunate wirecutter. That night, Greenwood, not alone with his troubles, had found a bottle and tried to while away the hours until sleep, or death, finally claimed him.
The next morning dawned bright and crisp, at least outside the fort. Inside, it was like a crypt, the darkness thick and stygian. The fighting had damaged the generator room and the entire wing was without power. Only in a few rooms was there any light from outside, either thanks to shell damage or the provision of firing ports or gun galleries. Though things felt no less cold, a slight thaw meant that snowmelt was now dripping through a thousand minuscule cracks and fissures in the walls and ceilings, water pooling on the smooth concrete floors of each chamber and tunnel. The feeble wicks of lanterns flickered with each nearby shellburst, as the air displaced by the explosion caused a tremor of imperceptible movement to waft through the atmosphere below ground.
Greenwood sat in the darkness, his gun clutched in his hands tightly. Though he wore a pair of woollen gloves and another leather pair over the top, his hands still shook. His greatcoat, once fancy and now practically ruined by dirt and sweat and smoke, lay wrapped about him. His breath condensed with every exhalation, a cloud in front of him, as though he were smoking a cigarette. That would be a luxury now- the fort had run out of cigarettes. Evidently nopony bothered to assign much priority to them when they were stocking the bunkers with supplies, though the abundance of alcohol made up for that oversight.
He was not drunk now, though. He was sober, and cold, and scared.
The Equestrian shelling had redoubled in the past hour, which could only mean that the pony spotters had noticed an increase in Kirin movement. That, in turn, surely heralded another incoming attack. His unit had lost seven ponies in the last one; four stallions and three mares, all dead. Greenwood had scavenged a submachine gun from one of them. He had his pistol and his sword- normally ceremonial, but potentially quite useful in this sort of close combat- but a submachine gun was better. More firepower, deadly at close range, perfect from tunnel fighting.
The shelling continued outside, as monotonous as the drip-drip-dripping of water from some pipe overhead. Luckily the splashes were not landing on him. Not since he had moved, anyway. He crouched behind the jumbled sandbags, restacked since yesterday when most of them had taken a tumble during the fighting. They were waiting, ears straining, for any sound above the background thrum of explosions. Signs that the Kirin were advancing down the tunnels again. Junior Lieutenant Tracer, his bunkmate on the Defiant, squatted nearby, peering into the dim darkness ahead. If we ever get back to the ship, Greenwood thought, I'm going to spend a lot of time looking out of that fucking porthole. Oh, for some proper light!
There was no light ahead, but there was a slight discoloration, a shimmer deep in the gloom. It was almost like looking at an oil slick on the surface of the water, something you might not notice at first, but which would become more perceptible the longer you looked at it. There was definitely something out there.
Somepony shone a flashlight toward it as they readied their weapons, the machine gunner gripping the firing handles in anticipation. But there was nothing there after all. Just a light white smoke, filtering through the vents and shell-holes from the bombardment above. It drifted gently, carried slowly forward by the prevailing air currents inside the bunker. Smoke, but no Kirin.
"Stand down," Greenwood ordered, as the ranking officer present. Nervous fingers were removed from triggers, though eyes and ears did not rest, just in case the Kirin really were lurking in the darkness. He took a swig from his water flask, the fluid more precious than ever now because the water distillation plant had been knocked out by severe vibrations from the bombardment. The fort would slowly but surely run out of water, something that the presence of no amount of vodka and whiskey and rum could offset. Fumbling with the screw-cap, Greenwood hooked his canteen back onto his belt. He would have to make the rest of its contents last.
Two small outer posts lay about ten yards ahead of the main sandbagged line. Clusters of ponies with submachine guns crouched there behind rubble and upturned metal shell-carts. Seemingly for no reason, one of the stallions suddenly jerked up, looking around. He staggered to his feet, coughing and stumbling, leaning on the wall like a drunkard. Greenwood looked over curiously. Was he ill? Had the stress finally caught up with him, as it had with the pony he had seen running out into the snow toward the Kirin lines?
If he had gone mad, he was not alone, for now a mare was exhibiting similar behaviour. She clawed at her throat, dropping her gun and moving back toward the main position. Several others began coughing, signalling to the rest that something was wrong with frantic arm movements. Greenwood surveyed the scene with a puzzlement that rapidly turned to horror as the reality began to dawn. It wasn't just smoke from the bombardment. It was something far more insidious, something that the Kirin had not even been known to possess, something which had been outlawed by treaty in the rest of the world. He caught an incongruous whiff of a newly-mown meadow, permeating through the dank stench of the tunnels, and for a split second he almost panicked, caught himself, and, drawing in a mighty breath, he bellowed out a warning as loud as he could. One word, repeated three times, the signal for alarm that he had never imagined he would ever have to use.
"Gas!" he roared. "Gas, gas, gas!"
"Gas, gas, gas!"
Lieutenant Tracer took up the cry, and a sudden panicked murmur spread among the defenders. The cloud of smoke drifting slowly down the tunnel was not benign; it was a spreading cancer, a weapon of war. Somewhere above, the Kirin must be opening cylinders of the stuff and letting it pour down into the vents of the fortress.
The Equestrians had no gas masks. The sailors were never issued with them at all, and the soldiers assigned to garrison duty were never expected to ever face such a threat either, especially since most nations had signed a treaty prohibiting the use of gas as a weapon. The Kirin, however, had never signed.
"Get something over your faces!" Greenwood shouted. "Masks if you have them! Handkerchiefs or scarves if not! Piss on them and then put them over your mouth and nose!"
A few ponies looked at him with confusion, but her reiterated his order. "Piss on them! It's better than nothing, just do it!" He remembered his time in the infantry and the helpful lecture his unit had received from some grey-maned old chemistry professor on war gases. The thing he remembered most vividly, because it had appealed to his juvenile side at the time, was the instruction to urinate on a cloth or rag or piece of clothing to provide rudimentary protection if nothing else was available. Something to do with the ammonia, he recalled.
Around him, ponies hastily unzipped or dropped their trousers to void their bladders onto whatever piece of clothing they could spare. There was no time for anything so unnecessary as modesty. Greenwood urinated onto his scarf before tying it around his face like a bandana. It stank like a public restroom and was immensely claustrophobic, especially in an already-confined space like the tunnel. But it might just offer some tiny modicum of protection against the gas.
He searched his memory again for the chemical warfare training he had undergone years ago. Respiratory symptoms seemed to be the primary effect so far- chlorine? No, wrong colour. This cloud of gas was whitish-grey, like smoke. Phosgene, then. Yes, that was it. And the smell of that meadow suddenly, which reminded him of his father's garden after a summer rain, when the gardener had managed to mow the lawns before the heavens had opened.
Now, there was no sky above, yet still the water dripped down. He realised he was now standing again under the spot where he had been sitting before, before he had moved, and the incessant drip-drip-drip was falling upon him again. Up ahead, the ponies from the two outer posts were retreating, coughing and gasping, unable to give themselves the rudimentary protection of a piss-soaked rag before the gas reached them. If their scarves and handkerchiefs did nothing to protect them, then the main line would break. They would have no choice but to retreat.
The gas cloud crept onward, like a malevolent fog from some gothic horror novel.
"Stand fast!" Greenwood ordered. "You!" he pointed to a Pegasus mare. "Get a message to the commander. Gas attack in sector six. Alert everypony that there may be additional attacks elsewhere in the fort at any moment."
She saluted and took to the air, keeping low in the bare concrete corridor and sweeping away into the darkness behind them. Pegasi had better eyesight than other subspecies of pony, and she would have little trouble navigating her way to the sections of the fort where the lights still blazed. Everypony else stood ready, rifles in hand, eyeing both the gas cloud and the tunnel beyond it. Surely the Kirin would be exploiting this? Surely they would be on the heels of the gas cloud like hounds on the hunt?
Greenwood tried his best to concentrate and not to heed the rising tide of nausea caused by inhaling the vapours from his improvised protection. The gas crept closer until it washed over them, and it quickly became apparent that a urine-soaked rag, while probably better than nothing, had little effect, not at the concentrations the gas found itself in thanks to the confined space of the tunnel. On an open battlefield, it would spread out, dilute in the air, be carried by winds, settle in shell holes and low-lying areas. But in the tunnel, it was funnelled forward and kept contained.
"Shit..." somepony groaned. "It's not working!"
Greenwood felt his eyes burning. He had no protective goggles, though they may have done nothing anyway. That was only the first symptom of exposure; within seconds his throat tickled and he began to cough. There was that smell again, seeping through his scarf. New-mown hay or grass or something, not entirely unpleasant in the right context, but this was very much not the right context.
"I can't breathe..." somepony croaked out. Others were coughing and retching, pouring the precious contents of their water canteens into their eyes to quench the burning sensation. Greenwood's vision blurred, swaying like he was drunk, a sensation that had not long since gone away from his session with the vodka bottle the night before. His throat was starting to feel like it did at the moment of waking from a drunken slumber; raw, painful, clogged with mucus or sputum or something. He coughed, hacking rasps of air. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"What do we do, Lieutenant?" somepony asked, a soldier, glancing desperately between Greenwood and Tracer, his face concealed behind a canvas bandolier soaked in his urine, but equally as invisible to Greenwood because his eyes were full of water and itching madly, forcing him to squint and peer through the liquid veil, as though he were walking in a torrential downpour.
They couldn't fight like this.
Even if the gas wasn't going to kill them, the Kirin would, because nopony could fight while blind and bent double with coughs. Bands of sudden and sharp pain gripped Greenwood's chest and he coughed half a dozen times. There was no way they could repel a Kirin attack. Several ponies were already on their knees in panic, half-choking on phlegm and frothy sputum, peeling their makeshift masks off to hack it up onto the floor or to vomit uncontrollably.
"Fall back!" Greenwood shouted, the effort of forcing the words out through his swelling throat causing him to dissolve into another bout of coughs. Tracer repeated his call, and the ponies began to stumble back, away from the gas, seeking fresh air and relief from the deadly grip of the cloud. Their symptoms, while disorienting and scary, seemed relatively mild; nopony was falling down dead. But the effects of the gas were not just short-lived, and anypony with a high enough exposure to it risked developing edema of the lungs within a few hours, and drowning from the inside out, choking on their own fluids as they gasped for breaths that would not come. Greenwood knew this, remembered from his training, and he knew the longer they stayed there, the greater the risk would be, especially since their cloth masks were practically useless.
Before they could run completely, however, the Kirin appeared on the scene, as he knew they surely must. Bursts of gunfire erupted from the darkness of the tunnels, and the Kirin stormed forward. Unlike the defenders, they wore proper gas masks, well-fitted around their snouts and mouths, filtering out the harmful gas and letting them breathe normally as they charged.
Greenwood, with difficulty, ordered a rearguard action, setting one squad to cover their retreat. The position, he could see clearly, was lost. The junction between the tunnels could not be held against a properly equipped Kirin force, and perhaps might not be recovered, especially if the Kirin used gas again to break up a counterattack. It pained him to give the order to retreat, but, as ranking officer, it was his duty. Leaving his ponies to choke to death on phosgene fumes was not the mark of a good leader.
They stumbled away, out of the Kirin gunfire and round the corner into the tunnel, flashlights and magic illumination leading the way and piercing the darkness, coughing and weeping and vomiting as they went. Greenwood tore off his scarf and coughed up globs of pink-tinged yellow mucus. He could barely see where he was going, his eyes red and streaming. Though they were now clear of the gas, its lingering effects were still holding him tightly, making him struggle for breath as his unit made their way back to the next line of defence, a strong barricade with two machine guns tucked in behind it, guarding the tunnel and the courtyard entrance, where the Kirin had tried again to force a breach into the main section of the fort, and again been repulsed. But now, they had found a different route, through the interior, and had just made another leap forward by taking the tunnel junction where Greenwood and his unit had been stationed.
Greenwood leaned on the bare concrete wall for support as he coughed and almost vomited, instead hacking up pink froth, like seafoam tinged with some sort of algae. The ponies behind the barricade leaped out to assist their comrades, supporting them and helping them to climb over the sandbags and improvised obstacles. The messenger Pegasus had informed them of the gas threat, and a few of them already wore some form of mask, soaked with urine but, as Greenwood's unit had already discovered, all but useless against the phosgene gas in such high concentrations. The officer in charge, of the barricade, Captain Charade, was dismayed by the news. He helped Greenwood climb over the barrier personally, sitting him down against the wall and offering him water. Those who were most badly affected by the gas, mainly the ponies who had been in the outer positions ahead of their main strongpoint, were taken away to the fort's infirmary.
"They're advancing," Greenwood grunted out, after a big swig of water had helped him partially clear his mouth and throat of the foul mucus, which he spat away into the tunnel's drainage culvert.
"I know, we heard the gunfire," Charade nodded, his dark brown beard a slightly deeper shade than his chestnut body and face. "I hope the commander has a plan, because if they gas us here, we're done. We can't keep on retreating. Soon there won't be anywhere to retreat to."
Greenwood nodded, only able to see the Captain as a swaying, shimmering figure, like a ghost, through the mist of tears and swelling around his eyes. "We couldn't stay," he added plaintively, as though interpreting Charade's words as criticism. "It's phosgene, I'm pretty sure. High concentration...in the tunnels..."
Charade nodded. He understood. "None of us have gas masks," he replied. "If the Kirin wanted, they could just pour that poison into the vents until we all surrender or die. Like smoking out the rats from grandpa's old basement," he mused, mind wandering for just a second. "You and your sailor boys shouldn't even be here. This isn't your realm. Should be out on the water, but instead they decided to send you down here to hell." He shook his head sadly. "I know those guns they sent over were naval, but they work just the same as our artillery. They shouldn't have sent you out here to die like this."
"I was one of you, sir," Greenwood replied with a pained grin. "Lieutenant of Foot, almost three years. Was over in Mare-isle."
"Huh, no shit," Charade chuckled. "I figured there was some good in you after all. I could sense it. How'd you end up in the navy then?"
"Transfer..." Greenwood coughed. "Army life? Not for me."
"Not for me either," the Captain admitted, helping Greenwood to stand. "Not this side of it anyway. Garrison duty, well sure, that's fine. But...not sure any of us expected an actual fucking war to break out. C'mon, let's get you to the infirmary. If we get any kind of chance for a breakout, I'll make sure you and your sailor boys are the first to leave. The fleet's gonna need you, by the sound of it, if it comes down to fighting."
Greenwood nodded. He didn't speak again as Charade helped him to the rear and handed him over to two medical orderlies. "Oh, and Lieutenant?" the Captain called. Greenwood turned his head.
"Don't beat yourself up about falling back. You did the right thing," Charade assured him. "If those Kirin fucks drop gas on me? I'll pull my boys out, too. Can't fight this stuff, not without real gas masks. Can't fight fate."
Greenwood nodded, and the orderlies bundled him away.
Fort V was stubborn. The Kirin kept pouring soldiers and gas into it, but the dwindling garrison continued to resist, not content to simply lie down and die. Every chamber and corridor that was taken was paid for dearly in blood by the invaders. For all their training and equipment, the Kirin stormtroopers were just as vulnerable to bullets and grenades as anybody else, and they were relatively few in number. After taking heavy losses in the first few days of the siege, they were mostly replaced by regular line infantry. They fared no better, and indeed a little worse, lacking the demolition charges, bundled grenades, and other useful equipment that the stormtroopers used.
Flamethrowers still led the charge each time, often preceded by the targeted release of more phosgene gas. The Kirin would place a large metal cylinder near one of the vents that they knew, or suspected, fed a certain part of the fort with fresh air. Then the valves would be opened and the gas allowed to flow free, being sucked down into the vents by the slight pressure difference. For the most part, it was highly effective, although once the Kirin did unleash it through the wrong vent, and managed to kill eighteen of their own troops and hospitalise several dozen.
While Greenwood was convalescing in the less than pleasant surroundings of the fort's dingy and bloodstained infirmary, surrounded by members of his ragtag unit and others who had been exposed to the gas, the battle for Fort V continued to rage. The Kirin surged forward, taking the courtyard, finally, littered with the bodies of their comrades who had fallen in earlier assaults. They gassed their way into the main wing, but a furious bombardment from the Equestrian artillery prevented them from deploying any more cylinders successfully. One shell landed near a cylinder that was being prepared, and shrapnel burst it open, the gas spilling forth and maiming or killing the entire team send to deploy it.
In Harmony Bay, General Wild Willow had long since accepted the likely fate of Fort V. She knew the garrison could not hold out indefinitely, and she knew that the main Equestrian counterattack had not yet really begun. She knew of the approach of the Home Fleet, and she knew what she could achieve with the forces at her disposal. As a result, she organised a local counterthrust, aimed at Fort V, with the sole intention of opening a relief corridor to the beleaguered garrison. It was a simple enough plan; under cover of heavy artillery bombardments from the three rear forts, all of which had been repulsing regular Kirin attacks over the past week, a column of infantry would advance, securing a corridor through the empty scrubland and snowfields that lay between the two lines of fortresses. Once they reached the rear of the fort, where the main entrance lay, they would hold off the Kirin while, at the very least, the wounded were evacuated. If there was time, they would take everypony, but the fort's commander, Major Raincloud, had told her via carrier pigeon- the radios having been knocked out- that he would remain behind with a force of volunteers if necessary.
Under cover of darkness, the relief column began to advance quietly across the open ground. Then, the guns of forts X, Y and Z, the artillery batteries in the city, and the heavy guns of Admiral Strongbow's battleships, opened fire at the stroke of midnight. The naval guns, unable to be accurately directed due to their position down in the harbour, nevertheless had the range to strike at Kirin positions on the flanks of Fort V, to try and prevent any movement of troops from Fort U or Fort W if the Kirin attempted to cut the corridor from the side. The guns of the forts themselves, with spotters in their observation cupolas, were able to direct their fire on top of Fort V, to scatter and pin down the Kirin troops who swarmed all over it. Under this protective barrage, the Equestrian troops hurried forward, linking up with the garrison. The evacuation began immediately.
In the infirmary, Greenwood had been resting on bedsheets stained with the blood of some other poor unfortunate. All around him for the past two days, ponies he had been in command of had been dying, choking on the melting remains of their own lungs, fluid filling their airways as the phosgene gas took its deadly, delayed revenge on those who thought they had escaped its clutches. By quirk of fate, Greenwood had avoided developing any edema in his lungs; for whatever reason, be it receiving a smaller dose, his scarf being more effective protection than whatever the others had used, or divine protection from Celestia, he had pulled through the worst of it, though his eyes, lungs and throat still ached. Any danger of being exposed to more phosgene was to be avoided at all costs, for that would make things worse and likely lead to the same kind of agonizing death as some of those around him had suffered.
When the evacuation order came, Greenwood was among the first to be taken out by stretcher. true to his word, Captain Charade had persuaded Major Raincloud to permit the sailors to be evacuated too, wounded or otherwise. After all, he argued, they had lost the use of the naval guns which they had been brought over to use. They hadn't been sent to fight this kind of fight.
Once the wounded were away, Raincloud and Charade met in their command room, deep in the fort. They quietly agreed. Both officers would stay. Charade saluted Raincloud, and she waved it away, shaking his hand instead. Together with sixty volunteers, they remained in the fort to try and hold it. None of the sixty-two ponies would ever see their homes again.
Dearest brother,
I have a medal! The Crimson Teardrop, for wounds received in combat. Not the medal I was hoping to win, but still! I cannot tell you too much about the circumstances just yet. Needless to say, the Kirin have played one of their dirty tricks. No doubt it will be all over the national press soon enough, to stir up outrage, and rightfully so. They have taken the barbarism of war to heights that none of us wanted it to go. War is a bloody thing at the best of times, but it seems they are keen on making it even more so. Let us hope this was the first, and last, of such things that we saw from this foreign beast.
The city is surviving, just about. The Kirin shell us every day, though whether from the land or the sea, I cannot tell from my hospital bed. I have been here a week, on board the Salvation. A mighty vessel in her way, larger than any of our battleships. A former ocean liner I understand, now tending to the sick and wounded of the fleet. They painted her white, of course. Big medical insignia on the sides of her hull. From my porthole I can see my ship, moored at one of the piers (I won't put the name down in case the censors decide to remove it again). How I long to be back aboard! The doctors say I should be fit for service in another three or four days.
Stay safe, wherever you are, little brother. We shall meet again, I am certain of it.
Greenwood
Greenwood put down his pen and rested his head back against the cleanly-starched pillows. The Salvation was the Northern Fleet's hospital ship, a converted ocean liner as he had mentioned in his letter to Greenshield. It could house five hundred patients, and would accompany the fleet on any major deployment to tend to the sick and injured. Naval operations tended to produce fairly high numbers of relatively minor casualties; diseases spread rapidly among the crew if they happened to be picked up ashore, and working with machinery and scalding-hot steam pipes and boilers led to frequent burns, cuts and bruises. While each ship had an infirmary, they could only handle a couple of serious cases at any one time, so patients requiring surgery or long-term treatment would be shifted first to the hospital ship, and then to a shore hospital when the fleet reached port.
Greenwood had lain in his bed for the past week. None of the doctors had treated chemical warfare patients before, but an industrialised society like Equestria used chemicals and gases for all kinds of non-warlike purposes, and there was no shortage of knowledge in how to treat phosgene inhalation, as it was used to make pesticides for agricultural purposes. They had seemed confident that Greenwood, having taken in only a relatively small dose of the stuff, would make a full and relatively swift recovery.
And he did indeed feel much better. Not quite to full strength, but not far off. Tracer, too, was recovering well, in the next bed over, sharing one of the cabins as they did on the Defiant. Others, however, had not been so lucky. Four of the sailors they had led out to the fort had died in the infirmary there, choking on every frothing breath. Two others were unlikely to ever recover to full service, and would probably be invalided out of the navy once they were well enough to go home.
Home.
Not for him. The Defiant was out there; he could see it from his porthole. That was where he needed to be. Not the fort, not home, but at sea, where his true calling lay. Not that the destroyer was going anywhere; the fleet was still bottled up in the harbour, awaiting the aid of the Home Fleet, whenever that might come. But at least when that moment did come, they would be ready. Ready to surge forth from the port and strike the Kirin from behind while they were engaged with Blueblood's armada. That was the hope, at least, in Greenwood's mind. A glorious battle and a crushing victory, a tot of rum to celebrate, and then, eventually, hopefully; then he could go home.
Greenshield's feet were tired. Sore, swollen, blistered. The soles of his boots were wearing away from all the countless miles they had covered. They were advancing on the Kirin, but it was rough going. Though they were no longer in the mountains, they were still very much in the grip of a Northwick winter, and the tracks were an awful, debilitating mixture between thick, cloying mud and deep snow, depending on where exactly they were. The winds were biting and icy, cutting through the winter uniforms of the 45th Regiment. This was not campaigning weather; in days of old, armies would simply make camp for the winter because they knew they could not operate successfully in the frost and snow and rain, and they knew their enemies could not, either.
But war had changed. Mechanisation provided the means for logistical success. Trains, airships, and the new motorised trucks and cars permitted much smoother transport of both ponies and equipment. Unlike donkeys or wild horses, distant relatives of the pony race, vehicles did not need feeding, other than with gasoline. They did not need rest, they did not panic at the sound of gunfire, they did not tire out and get sick and buck their riders. For the frontline infantry, however, things were much the same as they had ever been- march, march, march.
Greenshield knew they were on their way to Harmony Bay. He had said as much in his last letter to his brother, sent out in the postbag a week or so ago. What he did not know was how far away they were. Everywhere they were travelling through looked the same, just another tiny Yak village with wide-eyed foals peering from windows. Just another snowy forest, another babbling mountain stream. It was beautiful, like an image from a Hearth's Warming card, but it was so impersonal, so alien, almost, from what he knew. The whole of Northwick seemed that way. It was a strange, directionless place. If a pony got separated from their unit, alone out here in the thick and silent pine forests or the wide snowfields, they would likely never find another living soul before they died of exposure.
It was nothing like genteel Hoofbury, where he had been born and raised, or rowdy, raucous Baltimare, where he had worked as a dockhand part-time during his final school year before, ironically, joining the army instead of the navy. Baltimare had a nice, sensible grid pattern to most of its civic architecture; you could follow the street numbers and know exactly where you were. Out here, even with a compass, a clear night and a fine map, you would be hard pressed to navigate your way to anywhere.
It was the nights that unnerved him the most. Even without the prospect of a sudden Kirin attack, there were distant howls from timberwolves, the hoots of snowy owls, the cracking of twigs in the forest or the slight slumping sound of snow falling from an overloaded branch, and apart from that, complete and utter silence. No rowdy revellers going home from the tavern, no clattering motorcars on the street or clanging tram-bells. Nothing.
No civilization at all.
There were Yak hamlets here and there, but they hardly constituted a civilization, not in Greenshield's mind. Civilization meant bustling streets and big brick buildings, the smell of smoke from a hundred belching furnace-chimneys, a plate of oysters and a pint of beer. The Yaks were...quaint? No, not quite the right word. After all, they had once been mighty warriors, a fearsome race, and still were if you deigned to engage them in combat. But their lifestyle, still semi-nomadic for the most part, seemed ancient, like something which, by rights, should have already been lost in the mists of time. The landscape they inhabited seemed no less primeval, all towering, jagged mountains and snow-swept plains. He could almost picture dinosaurs striding through the province millions of years ago.
The 45th Regiment had been marching since two days after the battle of Yakfrost Pass. It seemed like a lifetime ago, a lifetime of snow and cold. They had not marched directly toward Harmony Bay, but rather south for a considerable distance to link up with reinforcements. Several divisions which had been dispatched from Equestria had arrived, and they joined the 45th Regiment and the other units which had defended the mountain pass. A powerful force, they now had enough troops to prevent any further Kirin attacks to the west or north. Yakyakistan province was safe, but Northwick was still under Kirin domination, with the exception of Harmony Bay. Once the Equestrians had been able to build up an even stronger presence here, they could launch an attack and drive the Kirin back into the sea.
Greenshield's thoughts turned quite instinctively to his brother. He had still not received a single letter from him, though that was not too surprising, given that Harmony Bay was under siege. But was that the only reason for the lack of contact? Or was the news out of the port city, on a more personal level, even worse than he knew? Was his brother alive or not? The thought tormented him as they marched, endless miles under his boots. Was he the only surviving sibling? Maybe Greenwood had been captured. How did the Kirin treat prisoners? He didn't know. There was not much he did know, in truth.
Such was the inevitability of being frontline infantry.
They camped that night in a railway siding, where no trains had run for weeks. Since the Kirin cut the line, there had been nowhere for the trains to go. Instead they had been terminating up the line at Saltborough since the war began. Only now that the Equestrian Army was advancing again were the trains moving farther eastward, keeping pace with the advance and staying several miles behind the frontline, bringing vital supplies and ammunition to the soldiers. Harmony Bay was still out of reach, but they were pushing forward all the time, probing tentatively. Greenshield knew that other units had made contact with the Kirin, and had engaged in hard-fought combat in the woods to their north. But for the most part, the advance seemed to be uncontested. The Kirin were content to let the Equestrians claw back some of the frozen land they had abandoned; why? Lack of strength to fight off the counterattack, or were they luring the ponies in to some kind of trap?
As he lay curled up in his bedroll in a trackside shed that night, shivering and shaking against the winter chill, Greenshield did not know which of those scenarios might be true, but he hoped fervently it was the former.
The transit between New Zebrica and the Equestrian port of Summertown had been long. Bypassing the Griffon-controlled city of Bridgeport had meant adding almost fifteen hundred miles extra to the Home Fleet's journey before their next coaling stop, which was why Admiral Blueblood had been so keen to load up as much of the filthy black stuff as he could back in New Zebrica. It also explained his eagerness to depart, despite many of his vessels needing repair after the hurricane. New Zebrica was a neutral port, a foreign nation in control of who came and who went. Kirin spies and, potentially, saboteurs were sure to be present in significant numbers, with nothing the fleet could do to control such matters. At least Summertown was friendly.
Blueblood had pushed his sailors hard, and they were not happy. Even with the mutineers sailing back to Manehattan under armed guard, the mood in the fleet was not good. The exertions of sailing through the hurricane, followed immediately by heatstroke and struggle as they loaded coal in New Zebrica, had exhausted many ponies. So far from home, their alcohol and cigarettes still on half-rations as per the Admiral's orders, the threat of submarine attack a constant unwelcome companion, the fleet's morale had plummeted to a new low.
This was evident in the second gunnery practice that the Admiral ordered. The fleet's performance was even more dire than the first time they had tried it, just out of New Zebrica. A disconsolate Blueblood took to his cabin and self-medicated with caviar, salmon fillet with potatoes and asparagus, and a large quantity of whiskey. The rest of the fleet enjoyed boiled rice with pickled cabbage, tinned carrots and some dried-up rye bread.
They met no more enemy submarines, despite keeping a constant lookout and minimising radio contact, as they had done the entire way down from Manehattan. After the attack which sank the Fillydelphia and the fleet oiler, Blueblood had become even more paranoid about the possibility of losing more ships, of his force being whittled away, one by one, until he arrived outside Harmony Bay with just the Chevaline. A fanciful notion, though one which repeated and repeated in his nightmares. The Kirin, of course, would target his flagship as a priority if they were to get the chance. The likelihood of the Chevaline being the only ship to arrive was essentially nil.
Blueblood imagined it was his own good tactical planning which was keeping the Kirin at bay. But a nagging voice told him that maybe it was just circumstance. The Kirin were probably shadowing his fleet. After all, one submarine against an unsuspecting battleship was a very tempting proposition for any Kirin captain, but the entire fleet together, with its masses of destroyers and escorts carrying hydrophones and depth charges, was an altogether different beast. It would be like a ferret attacking an entire pack of very hungry wolves, and would end in much the same way. The Kirin, Blueblood had learned, were not stupid. Admiral Strongbow had learned the same thing up in Harmony Bay. They would not waste a submarine in a pointless and bloody attempt to sink one or two ships. The storm had provided the perfect operating conditions for the underwater boats, because it had torn the fleet from its formation and scattered the vessels across a wide swathe of sea. Isolated ships were easy potential prey.
Summertown, their next stop, was the final coaling station before the Home Fleet would reach Harmony Bay. It was not very summery, especially not now, being positioned halfway up the eastern coast. It derived its name from the fact that, compared to the more northerly reaches, it actually was relatively summery. Residents of Northwick and other chilly provinces would decamp to Summertown in winter to avoid the absolute worst of the cold. The harbour was overlooked by headlands which were dotted with holiday homes, moderately rich and influential ponies owning most of them. Those who had the funds would travel somewhere much nicer for the winter, but Summertown would suffice for those of middle income.
Summertown had been a naval station for a long time, as it was a fine spot for policing the trade routes all along the eastern coast, and also those that connected Equestria to the Kirin homeland. Ships of the line had been stationed here, their tall, towering masts and billowing sails a proud and stirring sight as they sallied forth to deal with pirates and privateers. The gunmetal-grey hulls and menacing silhouettes of the modern-day Home Fleet were somewhat less picturesque, though far more deadly.
Blueblood had ordered the ships to anchor in the harbour, and here they stayed for a fortnight. The ships which had been damaged in the storm- mostly destroyers and light cruisers, the smaller vessels more badly tossed by the sea- finally had a chance to complete necessary repairs. Every ship conducted a quick maintenance job on her boilers, condensers, propeller shafts and steering gear. A more in-depth examination would have to wait until they returned to port, either in Manehattan or in Harmony Bay, where dry docks, specialist fleet engineers and a much wider array of spare parts could be obtained.
Assuming, of course, they made it back to port at all.
Blueblood spent most of the days in his cabin, when he was not ashore at official parties in the mayor's house or the dockyard commodore's residence. Those who saw and spoke to him described his mood as sullen, like a stroppy teenager sulking after being told off for some perceived slight or misdemeanour. It was a marked change from the bullish and confident Admiral who had departed Manehattan. It was different even from the harried and angry Admiral who had departed New Zebrica after quashing the mutiny.
Flag-Captain Champagne Crown began to privately wonder if the Admiral was actually up to the task of leading the Home Fleet into battle, a subject he would never dare raise with anypony else. But he respected Blueblood greatly, and felt it was his duty to talk to the Admiral before they sailed. In his cabin, Crown confronted his Admiral.
"Sir, with the utmost respect..." Crown had begun, while Blueblood poured himself another tot of vodka. "This voyage has been long and arduous, for you as much as for any of the seaponies. Is it...conceivably possible that the fleet might benefit from...ah...from..."
"Out with it, then!" Blueblood had demanded, downing his vodka and slamming the glass on his desk.
"A change of leadership, sir?" Crown had pressed. "You are tired, I can see that. Everypony can see that. You have worked so hard to bring us this far, but I can tell something has changed in you. Perhaps Vice-Admiral Moonshot might be better suited, in the current situation..."
"I see," Blueblood replied, pouring another shot of vodka and consuming it calmly. Instead of clinking his glass down on the desk, he hurled it across the cabin in the direction of his Flag-Captain. "I am in command of this fleet, Captain, and I am going to remain in command of this fleet, and do you know why?" he bellowed. "Because this fleet needs me! We re going to sail into battle in a few days time and I am not going to delegate the fucking responsibility that was placed in my hands by the Sun herself!"
Crown ducked the glass and quickly retreated from the cabin, but Blueblood roared after him. "Where the hell are you going, Captain? I have not dismissed you!" Crown stepped back inside to face his Admiral's glowering, red-faced anger. "When I want your opinion on who should be in command of this fleet, I will ask you for it, but until then, there is only one pony who is in charge. Is that understood, Captain?"
"Yes sir."
"I will not put the responsibility for this fleet in the hands of that frigid bitch unless I am on the brink of death, and as for that glorified coastguardspony Green Haze, well, he does not impress me either! Neither of them have commanded a fleet in battle before," Blueblood continued his rant. Crown dared not interrupt to point out that, while neither of the Admiral's deputies had led a major fleet action, neither had he.
"Yes sir."
"Now I'll overlook this," Blueblood grunted, "provided you fetch me a fresh bottle of vodka and then get out of my sight."
"Yes sir." Champagne Crown turned smartly and stepped out of the cabin.
Two days later, the Home Fleet set sail on the final leg of its long and troubled journey to Harmony Bay.
"Your Highness," Minister Copperhead bowed respectfully as Celestia entered the war room. It was mid-afternoon in Canterlot, a much more amenable time for a meeting than the early morning hours of the last one. "We have the latest signals from Admiral Blueblood."
"Very good, minister," Celestia nodded, fresh from an afternoon tea on the terrace with her sister. "What does he report?"
"Home Fleet three hundred miles from Harmony Bay. Expected contact with Kirin force within the day," Copperhead read from the typed transcript in his hand. "Request updated Kirin order of battle from C-in-C Northern Fleet."
"Does Admiral Strongbow have that information to pass on?" Celestia asked.
"No, Your Highness. The Northern Fleet has been almost completely bottled up in Harmony Bay," Copperhead explained. "They have only sighting reports from the coastwatchers and the occasional merchant ship which ran the blockade. We also have several reports from our submarines that were trying to interdict the Kirin supply lines. As far as we can tell, the Kirin fleet has been reinforced by at least a couple of cruisers, but there may be more additional ships out there somewhere."
"And they know Admiral Blueblood is coming, no doubt," the Princess mused. "Yet we lack information on their capabilities almost completely."
"It is a tricky situation, but I am confident that the Kirin ships are, pound for pound, no stronger than ours," Copperhead replied. "If Admiral Blueblood can strike hard and fast, he will still be able to carry the day."
"Is that your belief, minister? Or your hope?" Celestia asked.
"A little of both, Your Highness, to be blunt," Copperhead replied. "We have never faced the Kirin in open battle before. Then again, they have never faced us, either."
Celestia nodded. "A very salient point. We shall all be finding out the truth of it together, it seems."
It was a long march, from the Yakfrost Pass to Harmony Bay. The great grey peaks gave way to forest and wide open tundra, narrowing at the neck of the peninsula where the city lay. The Kirin, secure in the knowledge that they had time, had built a line of defences facing westward. They knew the Equestrian Army was coming, and while they had so far failed to reduce the forts and take Harmony Bay, that outcome was still hanging in the balance. The ponies did not yet quite have the strength to wipe out the invaders, but they did, High Command had decided, have enough to launch a major counterattack and try to force a breakthrough in the Kirin lines, to establish a foothold in the enemy's rear. The Kirin, it had been determined, did not have the numbers to repel an attack and maintain the siege at the same time.
That was the situation on the planning tables in Canterlot, at least. On the ground in Northwick, it did not seem quite so straightforward. The 45th Regiment were part of the expected counterattack, and Greenshield, far more than he had been in the trench up on the Yakfrost, was scared. Defending was one thing, but this time, he and his fellow soldiers would be playing the part so ably played by the Kirin in the mountains; cannon fodder.
They had rested that night in a small copse of thin, skeletal trees. The silent shroud of stars overhead had provided an endless source of entrancement as Greenshield lay huddled in his bedroll. The trees, at least, provided some small protection from the wind. The snow had piled up around the edge of the copse, leaving an area of dry earth and dead leaves upon which his company rested. No campfire was permitted; they were within but a few miles of the Kirin line, and scouts, snipers or infiltrators could be operating anywhere. Other Equestrian units had bedded down nearby, all up and down the line. Artillery, rolled into position to their rear, could be heard setting up through the night, the clank of wheels and gun limbers, the muttered curses of the crews trying to shove their howitzers through the snow and mud.
Greenshield had been lucky enough not to be picked for unit sentry duty that night- or unlucky enough, as at least the sentries could move around to try and keep warm. Lying almost motionless in his bedroll and greatcoat, he had been too cold to sleep properly, too cold to think properly. Instead he gazed up through the branches at the stars, and his mind wandered to strange, ephermeral places. He went home, he went to the moon, he danced at the Grand Galloping Gala and he swam in the tropical waters of Mare-Isle. Then, suddenly, he was inside a great drum, its apocalyptic beat pounding in his brain, as the Equestrian artillery opened fire as one.
The brilliant flashes of the guns split the night, illuminating the emaciated woodlands where the 45th Regiment slept. But the guns heralded the dawn, though Celestia's sun was several hours away from cresting the horizon, and it was time for them to rise from their frost-encrusted bedrolls and prepare for war. Greenshield, half-deafened by the sudden roar, felt the hand of somepony shaking him awake, though he could hardly have slept through the opening volley. The guns, though mostly light mountain artillery and pack howitzers, would do the job of softening up the Kirin lines. The assault, as was traditional, would begin just before dawn.
No prizes for originality there, General.
Greenshield rose to unsteady, stiff legs. His hands were chilled quickly by the air, and he plunged them into his pockets, drawing his greatcoat tightly about him. No campfires meant no hot water, so no prospect of a cup of coffee to warm the body and soul before battle. All around, ponies were rising wearily, patting themselves and stretching to try and shake off the cold and the gnawing fatigue that it brought. Breakfast was dry crackers and an imitation cheese spread squeezed from a small foil tube, and water made by filling a canteen with snow and secreting it beneath one's clothing until it melted. It chilled the body, but simply swallowing snow would do a far more effective job of lowering a pony's core body temperature than letting it melt first.
The guns bleated out their now-familiar refrain, throwing shells toward the Kirin line. The very faintest traces of dawn were starting to caress the sky. It was a weak light, sickly and feeble, with the wind like the breath of a dying old stallion, though expected to pick up later in the day. The hope was that the Equestrians could punch through the Kirin lines and scatter them before dusk. The meteorological station at Yakyakistan had reported falling pressure, and predicted squalls of snow by noon, with rising winds through the early afternoon. The generals, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to press ahead with the attack, since the longer range forecast suggested they wouldn't get another spell of half-decent weather for at least a week. One morning was all they had. The soldiers would make it work.
Greenshield reached into his pocket and pulled out the slightly crumpled paper of his latest letter to his brother, unsent. He was waiting for the mailbag to come round so he could drop it in, but there was no sign of it. Somepony always drew that duty before an attack. Ponies wanted to send love letters, notes and postcards before an assault, because they might not get another chance.
One by one, the units advanced across the lightly wooded terrain, drawing up into their jump-off positions, ready for the attack. Ahead, across a seemingly endless expanse of open ground, lay the Kirin line, tangles of wire and snowy embankments of piled dirt vaguely visible as ephemeral shapes in the half-light. The snowy, rocky field was pock-marked with shell craters from where the Equestrian bombardment fell short before observers had adjusted the fire. The moon, formerly bright, was now shrouded ominously in wispy cloud, like a death-veil, Princess Luna symbolically averting her gaze from the field below. But why? Was she about to bear witness to a slaughter?
There was no retaliatory fire from the Kirin artillery. Were their guns busy trying to subdue Harmony Bay's forts, had they been knocked out, or were they just waiting? Greenshield rested with his back against the trunk of a tree. His section crouched nervously around him. They were not going in the first wave; they were part of the second. Not lucky enough to have drawn the safer duty of laying down suppressing fire from the woods, but at least spared by fate from having to be leading the charge. His machine gun section would be advancing with the second wave to relieve the first, who would have taken the enemy trench. Wouldn't they?
Wouldn't they...?
The bombardment ceased all of a sudden, as abruptly as it had begun. Greenshield checked his watch. It was exactly two minutes to eight in the morning, though still gloomy and dull, the moon settling low behind the clouds but no sun yet rising to take its place. It was like looking out at a black-and-white photograph of the landscape. All along the line, he could hear whistles blowing. This was it, then. The first wave was going in. He turned to look.
Ahead of him, at the edge of the wood, a row of ponies rose. Their officers, swords and pistols in hand, led the way steadfastly, out into the gloom. Soon enough, it would be his turn to stride out from the safety of the trees, out into the open, unbroken tundra. Soon, but not yet. First, it would be his turn to watch.
The dawn came late in the chilly northern waters, at the top end of the Great Eastern Sea. The horizon was the same deep grey as the hulls of the ships which cut steadily through the water. Keen eyes scanned the overcast, seeking the tell-tale columns of black smoke that would indicate the presence of the enemy.
The Home Fleet had come far. The longest single fleet voyage in Equestrian naval history, no less, and it had not been for show, not some patriotic flag-waving journey to demonstrate military might to the locals they encountered along the way. They had come all this way to fight.
Aboard the flagship, Admiral Blueblood had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of eggs, toast, marmalade and honey, with freshly caught kippers and tea. The rest of the crew endured lukewarm porridge and stale ships' biscuits, something the sailors of old aboard their magnificent galleons would have sympathised with. There were, at least, second helpings for those who could stomach them, because the fleet was expected to go into battle within hours and the crews needed to have the energy to fight. Canned fruit was added to their meal as well; the sugars they were preserved in would help.
The fleet was in battle formation in anticipation, with a screening force of cruisers and destroyers out some fifteen miles ahead of the main force, more destroyers on the flanks scanning the depths with their hydrophones, and yet more bringing up the rear. At the centre of the formation were the battleships, and several miles ahead of them were the more agile battlecruisers. The auxiliaries, colliers and the hospital ship had been left fifty miles back under the protection of a single destroyer, all Blueblood was willing to spare.
As the ships sailed closer to Harmony Bay, Blueblood endeavoured to get into contact with the Northern Fleet. If they knew he was coming and was almost on station, then Admiral Strongbow could sail out with his force and take the enemy by surprise from the rear. Two fleets against one would turn a battle into more of a massacre, he hoped. Unfortunately, the radio seemed to be jammed by something. No messages were getting through, and there was only static and dead air in reply. Already rattled by the state of the fleet's morale and gunnery, Blueblood was disquieted by the lack of communications with the Northern Fleet. Had the city suddenly fallen since they departed Summertown four days earlier? Surely not. The last radio report from Canterlot had stated that the second line of forts protecting the city were still holding out.
Blueblood had to resort to contact by proxy; using the longer-range wireless telegraph set, he tried to contact Canterlot, both to relay his position and intentions and also to send a message to Strongbow to alert him to get his ships ready for action. This time the signals got through, to the Equestrian telegraphy station at Summertown, who relayed Blueblood's coded signal to the next station down the line, then the next and so on until it reached Canterlot. This took time as the successive operators had to re-send the signal by tapping it out letter by letter, and once it arrived in naval headquarters, it had to be decoded. While waiting for a reply, Blueblood found the situation changing quickly.
A signal lamp on board the battlecruiser Fearless, flagship of Rear-Admiral Green Haze who commanded the battlecruiser division, flashed a message to the Chevaline.
Destroyer Audacious reports enemy contact. Approx. 40 miles north-northeast of main battle group. Capital ships and escorts. Orders?
"Then we have them..." Blueblood muttered as the signal was read aloud by the officer of the watch. "We have them, by the Sun, or else they have us."
The Admiral's next signal was flashed around the fleet; Action Stations.
Signal flags ran up the halyards of the Chevaline, giving more general orders for lookouts on other vessels to relay to their captains. Blueblood wanted to continue to restrict radio communications as much as possible, because he feared that the Kirin might be able to pick up his messages, which through necessity were broadcast in the clear and with no encryption. The technology did not yet exist to secure such signals, and if the source of the radio problems with Harmony Bay was Kirin jamming, then it was highly likely their fleet would be listening in. After all, there were only so many frequencies that naval radio signals were customarily transmitted on. Even if the Kirin didn't know which one to listen to, it wouldn't take them too long to figure it out. By the same token, Blueblood ordered the Chevaline's radio room to listen out for Kirin signals, just in case they were foolish enough to fall into the same trap they were possibly trying to trick Blueblood into. The Admiral then had another signal sent, in code, to Canterlot via the telegraph.
Enemy sighted approx. forty miles east of last reported coordinates. Am proceeding to intercept. May the Sun & Moon be with us.
The Home Fleet formed up, its sailors and officers preparing for battle. Watertight hatches were closed and secured, the guns loaded, tertiary batteries readied and their gunports opened. The decks were cleared for action. Anything flammable was stowed away, and anything that might cause splinters or shrapnel, such as wooden furniture, were secured. Hammocks were bundled up and tied against the exterior bulkheads, a holdover from the old wooden sailing ships where it was hoped they might provide a modicum of extra protection to the crew. Damage control teams were stood up and fire hoses laid. The main decks were washed down with seawater to lessen the fire risk from shell strikes igniting the wooden covering that hid the armour plating. The gun crews donned their white flash-hoods and gloves, hopeful they would save their lives if a fire broke out inside the turret or magazine.
Blueblood ordered the screening force to obtain an accurate count on enemy warships. The signal was relayed by lamp to the battlecruisers, who were in visual range of the scouts, and thence on to Commodore Bright White, the mare who was in command of the cruiser forces. The reply was not something Blueblood wanted to hear, and a sinking feeling gripped his chest.
Enemy strength: 8 battleships, 5 battlecruisers, approx. 10 cruisers in sight, approx. 20 destroyers in sight.
They were outnumbered. The Kirin had more capital ships than had been imagined. Blueblood had five battleships and three battlecruisers; it was not enough. Surely, it was not enough. The Kirin had been reinforced during his voyage; they must have made sure their fleet would have enough firepower to defeat him once he arrived. Then they could turn their attentions back to Harmony Bay. He ordered another urgent coded telegraph signal sent out with the enemy strength and a request for assistance as soon as possible. If Canterlot could not get through to the Northern Fleet, he would be on his own out here, outgunned by the Kirin.
But they were the Home Fleet, damn it! The pinnacle of the navy, the oldest and proudest of her fleets. They were not going to run away, even if they were outnumbered by their foe. They were going to charge forward with their Equestrian ensigns fluttering in the breeze, and they were going to take the fight to the enemy, out here on the open seas. That, after all, was why they had sailed so damned far in the first place.
Blueblood ordered the screening force to keep out of range of the enemy's big guns, but before he could relay that message, one was relayed to him coming the other direction. The light cruiser Swift was coming under fire, and that was that. Battle was joined. There would be no turning back now. Rallying himself, Blueblood stood proudly on the bridge of the Chevaline. He would be the victor of the battle of the Great Eastern Sea, and it would be his name in the history books. He would be the one getting the ticker-tape parade through the streets of Canterlot, to the palace where the Royal Sisters would fete him with a banquet held in his honour.
Or else he would die out here in the frigid waters, the city of Harmony Bay would fall, and his name would be immortalised as one of history's great naval failures. There was, it seemed, no third option.
The ships of the Home Fleet formed up into their battle formation. The battleships with their heavy guns and long range drew themselves up in line astern, while the battlecruisers, faster but with slightly less firepower, ranging out ahead. They could retreat to the safety of their battleship support if needed, and with the numbers of Kirin capital ships being reported, that seemed likely. The heavy cruisers were arranged on the flanks, with the light cruisers and destroyers forming a screen both from enemy submarines and also from the Kirin's own lighter ships, which might try a torpedo attack if they could get close enough.
At nine in the morning, the Chevaline came within visual range of the Kirin, who until that point had just been a series of smudges on the horizon where their smoke had been rising. Now the Pegasi observers circling overhead could see the Kirin vessels, and within ten minutes, so could the bridge crew, peering through their binoculars. Blueblood thought they looked to be handsome ships from what he could see, but deadly, too. He imagined the Kirin admiral having the same thought as he or she peered through their own viewfinders. The Home Fleet appeared, externally at least, to be a devastatingly powerful and resilient foe. It remained to be seen how well its sailors would live up to that appearance.
At nine-thirty, Blueblood ordered a course change, running the signal flags up the halyards. Echelon left. The battleships began a slight but steady turn, until each one was staggered out across the sea, bringing their bows about to follow the Chevaline's lead so that each battleship was able to get a clear sighting of the enemy, unobscured by the funnel smoke from the ship ahead of them, and bringing their stern turrets to bear on the Kirin. Rangefinders and binoculars were trained upon the Kirin ships, ranging tables consulted, powder charges prepared, ammunition loaded onto the feed-hoists in the magazines below decks.
Blueblood sent another signal; Target the corresponding ship in the enemy's line. The Chevaline would thus engage the leading Kirin vessel, the Luna following on behind would fire at the second Kirin ship, and so on. Nobody would be firing at the last three Kirin battleships, as there were only five of their Equestrian counterparts. Blueblood directed the trio of battlecruisers to try and focus on those ships, ignoring the Kirin's battlecruisers, which were on the far side of the enemy formation, for now and using their speed, it was hoped, to avoid being hit by the heavy Kirin guns. The Fearless drove ahead at twenty-eight knots, outrunning her own destroyer escort who, despite being designed for lightness and speed, simply could not keep up with the massive turbines that pushed the battlecruiser to such a pace.
The range drew nearer. Twenty thousand yards, then eighteen, then sixteen. At fifteen thousand yards, the maximum effective range of the big twelve-inch guns, Blueblood had another flag run up the halyards.
Engage enemy.
The turrets of the Chevaline were already on target, the fire director station atop the big tripod mainmast controlling the aiming of all nine guns that composed the main batteries. Chevaline and Luna were the only battleships in the fleet that had this novel targeting system, where the main guns could be slaved to the commands of the fire-control officer who, from his perch in the armoured foretop, could clearly observe the enemy, being positioned above the funnels of the battleship and free from its smoke. The gunnery officers down below, peering through their prismatic rangefinders, had a much more limited view, more easily obscured by the sea conditions, clouds, smoke, fire or even bits of the ship's superstructure, depending on where exactly they were aiming. It was much easier to have one officer who could see clearly direct each gun onto the same target with the mechanical linkage system, correcting their elevation as necessary. Of course, even that did not guarantee hitting anything.
At nine forty-one that morning, the circling seabirds were startled into a flustered retreat as thunder broke across the sea. Each gun fired in turn, first the A turret nearest the bow, then the B turret behind her, and finally the C turret on the aft deck. Brown-grey smoke belched forth from each gun, the barrels nodding like the trunks of elephants as they recoiled, hurling their heavy shells into the air with a roar like a passing express train. The hull of the Chevaline groaned under stress from a full broadside of the main battery. The fire-control director watched through his rangefinder for tell-tale splashes around the lead Kirin battleship. After about forty-five seconds of travel time, he saw them, big plumes of water mushrooming up from the sea.
They were nearly two thousand yards short of the target. A mile or more. But that was alright. The fire director added elevation to the guns, ordering their crews to raise the barrels to a certain degree while his fire-control system kept them roughly on target as the Chevaline continued its long, sweeping turn to port. Behind them, the Luna blazed away, and then astern of her, the Sol Invictus opened up with her quartet of double-barrelled twelve-inch turrets. So the firing continued down the line, with the Royal Oak and Avenger engaging too. No hits were scored, but this was the limit of effective range, and the fleets were getting closer all the time.
The Chevaline's second salvo also fell short, though by slightly less. Now the Kirin were engaging too, big bright orange flashes from the foredeck of the lead ship. Her shots splashed into the water ahead and to starboard of the Chevaline, but only by a few hundred yards. Their second salvo also missed wide. Their third salvo threw up fountains of water beyond the Equestrian flagship, and now they had the Chevaline's range. Miss short, adjust, miss long, adjust again, and you knew pretty much exactly where to place your next barrage. In between the overshoot and the undershoot.
The Kirin ships began to fire, all eight battleships in turn, adopting a similar echelon formation to the ponies, their shells arcing down around the Equestrian vessels, getting closer with each salvo, while the outgoing gunfire scarcely seemed to get any nearer to the Kirin ships. Blueblood watched from the bridge, anxiously waiting for the first hit to be scored and hoping it was on one of the Kirin capital ships.
It was not. The Luna took the first blow when a twelve-inch Kirin shell screamed out of the heavens and slammed into the wooden deck, bursting with a tremendous roar against the armour plating beneath and scattering shrapnel and splinters all across the forecastle. Nopony was hurt, but the crew were rattled. This was definitely a real battle now, not the gunnery training sessions Blueblood had subjected them to. That knowledge did nothing to boost their morale. Nor did it improve their own accuracy. The next few salvos, even from the ships with fire directors peering out from their foretops, were pathetically off target, while the Kirin shells continued to fall nearer and nearer to the ships of the Home Fleet.
Green Haze's battlecruisers, however, were having a much better time of it. Sweeping out into a wide arcing turn, they speared forward for the Kirin's left flank. With most of the Kirin battleships focused on the line of their Equestrian equivalents, and the Kirin battlecruisers marooned on the opposite side of the fleet and out of range, the Fearless, Triumph and the Duke of Baltimare were able to drive into battle. They were, technically, not designed for slugging it out with enemy battleships. The original philosophy behind their design had been to outrun anything stronger than they were, and outgun anything smaller. But their armour was still thick and their ten and twelve-inch guns were powerful. Given Blueblood's shortage of battleships, the battlecruisers were the next best thing, even if he didn't have enough of them, either.
The bold charge by the trio of battlecruisers had taken the Kirin by surprise. Their own battlecruisers were out of position on the other side of the fleet, and it was the Equestrians who scored first blood in the battle. Two light cruisers, part of the capital ship's screen, found themselves directly in the path of Green Haze's squadron. At the much shorter range of eight thousand yards, the pony gunnery finally began to tell, and the main batteries of the Fearless blazed away with fury, her secondary six-inch guns joining in the cacophony too. The first Kirin cruiser was battered by heavy shells and set ablaze. The second was swept aside by the Triumph and theDuke of Baltimare, her port side torn open by a volley and her bridge crew pulverised by a direct hit from a ten-inch shell.
With a hole punched in the cruiser screen, Green Haze's ships were able to sweep past the leading Kirin battleships, whose turrets were focused on the Equestrian flagship and the rest of Blueblood's most powerful warships. Signal flags fluttered up the hoists of the leading Kirin ship, presumably the flagship of their Admiral, and the three rearmost battleships began to turn and break formation with the others. Their turrets began to swing back around, but Green Haze's battlecruisers were already on target, their aim having been calibrated by their engagement with the enemy cruisers. At twelve thousand yards from the port bows of the Kirin battleships, they opened fire.
The armour of the battleships was strong, thick steel plate, but now for the first time that armour was coming under heavy and sustained attack from Equestrian guns. Hits were being scored, even from the first volley; it was the most accurate the fleet's gunnery had been since leaving port. Shells smashed into the flanks and deck of the rearguard battleship, showering her in shrapnel. Her own big turrets were still turning. Green Haze, noticing the rest of the Kirin battleships continuing to pull away from his vessels and toward Blueblood, decided to press home the attack. He flashed signals to his destroyer escorts to pass between his battlecruisers and launch a torpedo attack on their three target ships, mindful all the time of a wave of Kirin destroyers steaming toward him from the northeast with the intent of doing the same thing to him. This was a chance, a big chance, to isolate and destroy a chunk of the Kirin's capital ships. Their Admiral, it seemed, had made a tactical error, exposing their battleships not just to his battlecruisers, but also to his destroyers which, though slower than his big ships, were now catching up as the battlecruisers had slowed to engage.
They managed one more surprisingly accurate salvo before the Kirin battleships were able to get their turrets aimed, and then big bright flashes began to light up their forecastles and fantails as their twelve-inch guns began to fire. Columns of water rose into the air near the Fearless, just a couple of hundred yards off target. Now there was an exchange of fire, both groups of ships shooting at long range with their heavy guns. Green Haze kept his ships at a distance; the battleships he was facing had masses of secondary guns, more than his battlecruisers possessed, and it was wise to keep out of range of them. Letting one of the Kirin ships unleash a full broadside with both its main battery and its secondary guns would not have been a sensible move.
In between the trio of battlecruisers came half a dozen scurrying destroyers, foam flying in their wake as their turbines drove them to their maximum speed of twenty-six knots. Their torpedo tubes were run out and ready. Unlike the battlecruisers, the destroyers had no choice but to get into range of the enemy's smaller guns, because their torpedoes had a maximum range that they were designed to run for. Once they hit that distance they would self-destruct, to avoid hitting friendly ships that might lie beyond a target vessel. With Green Haze's twelve-inch guns providing cover, the destroyers advanced among the towering splashes of water that showed how close the Kirin were getting to striking their own targets. The range closed rapidly as the destroyers pushed forward through the gently undulating waves.
Once the range was below ten thousand yards, the secondary batteries of the Kirin battleships began opening fire. Their targets were small compared to the ships that the big turrets were attacking, but they were much less well armoured. Plumes of spray began to rise all around the destroyers as they raced toward their targets. One of them was almost immediately struck in her superstructure, destroying her radio room and killing half a dozen ponies. Another shell struck the destroyer Juno in her port torpedo tubes, shaking the ship with a large explosion and blowing a hole in her deck big enough to drive a car through. The Kirin gunners were clearly enjoying their work. Another destroyer, the Comet, took a hit in the engine room from an armour-piercing shell that holed her just above the waterline. Scalding steam erupted from severed pipes, killing or maiming her entire engineering crew and forcing her to slump out of line, drifting listlessly, her screws slowing to a dead stop. More shells slammed into the ship, now broadside-on to the enemy and unmoving. Within a few minutes the Comet was a broken and burning wreck, slowly going down by the bow as her surviving crew tried to launch the lifeboats.
The other destroyers continued on, taking fire and taking casualties, but they managed to get their torpedoes away, immediately beginning sharp emergency turns to port or starboard to get away from the Kirin gunfire. The torpedoes streaked away ahead, but the Kirin battleships had been expecting it. There was no other reason for destroyers to race toward them except to launch torpedoes. Their bows were already coming about, which did at least block the field of fire of their forward turrets. The Kirin ships were turning away from the destroyers, for two reasons. Firstly, moving away from incoming torpedoes effectively reduced their relative speed and thus gave the battleships more time to maneouver, and secondly, steaming away from the torpedoes would mean there was a chance that the subsurface projectiles would exceed their maximum range before reaching their targets and thus explode harmlessly in the water. Turning away from a torpedo attack was standard procedure in the Equestrian Navy and, it seemed, in the Kirin Navy too.
Sensing this slight situational advantage, Green Haze pressed his luck longer than he had initially planned, and it paid off. The Fearless finally started scoring hits on her target, a ponderous and powerful-looking Kirin battleship which unusually only had a single aft turret. Most of her firepower was ahead of the superstructure, and in turning to avoid the torpedoes she had left herself undergunned. The Fearless could still fire with every one of her main guns, eight in total, as heavily armed as most of the Kirin battleships in that regard. Despite the target now presenting a much slimmer, stern-on profile, they had her range.
Green Haze watched through his binoculars with grim satisfaction as a shell tore through the superstructure of the Kirin battleship. He could only imagine the carnage it had caused. The Fearless rocked with another volley as her four turrets blazed away. He mentally timed the outgoing shells and watched for their impacts. This time they were almost accurate enough to win the fleet trophy for gunnery. A rippling string of bright flashes marked where the heavy armour-piercing shells had struck the steel plate of the Kirin ship. Green Haze clenched one fist in silent triumph, then had to suppress a most un-officerlike exclamation of joy as a great sheet of flame erupted from the Kirin's turret like a volcano. A direct hit, a penetration, and a strike on one of her magazines! It would be going up like the royal fireworks at the Summer Sun Celebration at any moment.
The flames licked across the stern of the battleship as it continued its stately turn, and, now blinded by the fire, her lookouts on the bridge wings could no longer see the torpedoes that were coming for them. As a result, the ship overcorrected and came right into the path of one of the torpedoes it had been trying to avoid. A plume of water rose higher than the ship's masts as the torpedo struck her on the stern, ripping a hole in her hull. Immediately she began to ride low in the water, down by the stern, like a deflated airship as the sea poured into her compartments. Oddly this actually saved the ship from immediate destruction, because the water flooded the aft magazine before it could explode, but she was still mortally wounded.
Green Haze turned his attentions to the next battleship in line, which was exchanging accurate fire with the Duke of Baltimare. This ship had two aft turrets with three guns apiece, and that was not doing the Equestrian battlecruiser any good at all. The Duke of Baltimare had taken several hits already, killing and wounding a number of her crew, but she had not taken any serious damage. Nor had either of the other ships under the Rear-Admiral's command. He issued a signal for the destroyers which had just launched their torpedo attack to proceed northeast and screen his battlecruisers from the incoming Kirin destroyer flotilla which was rushing up from their rearguard positions to support the rest of the fleet, and then he set about his duty once more.
The three battlecruisers, their guns flashing, exchanged fire with the two intact Kirin ships. The damaged battleship was going down heavily by the stern and her speed was dropping right off to almost nothing, her propellers smashed by the torpedo. Her crew could be seen milling about on deck waiting for the lifeboats to be launched. She would take no further part in this or any other battle. Meanwhile the front five battleships of the Kirin line were duking it out with Blueblood's main force, and the old Avenger, not as well armoured as the other, more modern battleships under his command, was having a rough time of it. Within minutes of battle being joined, she had lost one of her turrets to a direct hit which had peeled it open like a tin can and pulverised the gun crew inside. One of her boilers had been damaged, further cutting her already reduced speed. At the front of the line, Blueblood was unaware of her difficulties, as his attention was rigidly focused on two things. Observing the Kirin flagship through his binoculars, and trying to stop himself from dissolving into a fearful puddle of uselessness.
All through the long voyage, even after all their difficulties, as his confidence in victory had waned, Blueblood had still not been scared. He had been worried about returning home in defeat and being shunned in social circles for his ignominious failure, not about dying. But now battle was joined, and he was terrified.
The Battle Of The Great Eastern Sea
At a quarter past ten, Blueblood's steward-midshippony brought a cup of coffee to the bridge for the Admiral. The cup rattled in its saucer as the young stallion carried it; not because of nerves, but because the Chevaline was shaking beneath his feet as its turrets roared, hurling their big shells across the water. The range with the Kirin dreadnaughts was down to twelve thousand yards as the two lines of ships ran on a parallel course. Upon reaching the bridge, the midship-pony, Silver Tree, could see them through the bridge windows, whose glass had been removed in preparation for battle to avoid turning each pane into a thousand tiny bullets in the event of a nearby explosion. He could smell the sea air gushing in, and he could almost smell the Admiral's fear.
Blueblood's eyes were glued to his binoculars so that the bridge crew would not be able to see the growing panic in them. While the battle had begun with a fine blow against the Kirin, when Green Haze's battlecruisers had forced through their screen, sunk two cruisers and one battleship, the situation was far more finely poised than that initial success would suggest. Green Haze, after raking the other two Kirin battleships with fire and damaging them both, had been forced to turn tail and run, caught between a rapidly approaching Kirin destroyer flotilla that his own damaged destroyer escorts had been unable to repel, and the five Kirin battlecruisers who had looped around to the rear of the fleet's main line and passed astern of their own battleships. Separated from the rest of the fleet, Green Haze had urgently signalled for more destroyers to be sent to his aid so he could unleash another torpedo attack on the incoming Kirin battlecruisers, but the Equestrian flotillas were already engaged in flank screening to keep the Kirin destroyers away from Blueblood's capital ships.
Green Haze had actually gone against the rule that he had just seen observed a short time earlier, for when the Kirin destroyers had lunged forward, he had actually turned his battlecruisers toward them. It had worked, catching the smaller ships by surprise and forcing many of their torpedoes to be launched prematurely or not at all. Green Haze's ships conducted a lightning attack, secondary batteries roaring, pulverising three Kirin destroyers before the rest made emergency turns and fled for safety behind their own battlecruisers. To stay and duke it out with capital ships was a death sentence for any smaller craft. Their armour and armament simply could not hope to compete. After that success, however, nothing had gone the way of the ponies.
Green Haze had withdrawn behind his battered destroyer screen, reforming with Blueblood's battleships as per the Admiral's orders, flashed from signal lamps. Bringing up the rear, the three battlecruisers passed the Avenger, heavily damaged and listing to starboard, with flames licking across her quarterdeck. As the trio of ships raced through the water, the crew of the Avenger, assembling on deck to abandon ship, gave a hearty cheer, waving caps and flags, somepony holding the Equestrian ensign aloft, tightly gripped in his hands. The ship's band, gathered on the foredeck, struck up the national anthem. They received no reply from the battlecruisers, whose crews were far too busy to respond, except for a single signal, flashed by lamp from the bridge of Green Haze's flagship.
Good luck. Celestia protects.
Kirin shells began to fall around the battlecruisers, plumes of water rising into the air. Blueblood's ships were outnumbered; despite their kills, Green Haze's charge had not managed to change the balance of power significantly. The Kirin still had far more capital ships, and they were the ships that really mattered. They were the ships that would win the battle, barring some spectacularly successful torpedo attack from destroyers.
Or from a submarine.
A flag rose to the top of the main signal halyard aboard the Chevaline.
Torpedo sighted.
The flagship began to haul itself around to port. The ships in line behind her interpreted that as a turn away from the torpedo, as was usual procedure. But turning to starboard would have brought the battleship closer to the Kirin, in range of secondary guns, and Blueblood had ordered a turn toward the torpedo, which had seemingly come from nowhere. Its track of tell-tale bubbles had been spotted by a lookout, then confirmed by a second. It had originated from a patch of empty ocean, and that meant it could only have one source.
"Fire two!"
A pulse of compressed air rattled the IKV Formata as the second torpedo raced from its tube. Cherry Cascade, eyes glued to the periscope, watched the ponderous bulk of the Equestrian flagship heel over toward them; unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome. The Equestrian destroyers with their hydrophones were, for the most part, a fair distance away, though no doubt some would begin hurrying to their location at any moment. Having shadowed the Home Fleet ever since her engagement just after the hurricane, the Formata was nearing the limit of her endurance, with her diesel fuel and food supplies both running low. Another day or two and Cherry Cascade would have had to call it quits and turn for home, but the ponies had met the Kirin fleet at just the right moment.
Sneaking through a gap in the destroyer screen when the Equestrian escorts were repositioning at the start of the battle, the Kirin submarine had been waiting for the right moment to strike. Now, with the Equestrian battleships engaged and the Kirin ships which lay beyond being past the maximum range of her torpedoes, Cascade had decided the moment had come. She could fire without danger of striking her own ships, and she had a clear shot at the Equestrian flagship. What better moment could there be?
"Fire three, fire four!" she ordered. The crew complied, sending two more torpedoes on their way from the bow tubes. The second battleship in line was steaming onward, either oblivious to the danger or confused by something. Perhaps the flagship had ordered it to maintain its heading? Either way, it was steaming right toward the tracks of her four torpedoes. Cascade barked an order for all four tubes to be reloaded, and kept her eyes on the prize. The flagship was coming about hard; some eagle-eyed bastard had spotted the first torpedo and immediately signalled the bridge. But the second ship in line, if her simple calculations were correct...unless they made a sharp turn in the next five or six seconds...
They didn't. The second ship kept charging on, heavy guns blazing, hurling shells at the Kirin fleet. Verdant Vision, the hydrophoneer, had identified it as one of the Princess-Class just from its prop noise, and that meant it had to be the Luna, the only vessel of that class assigned to the Home Fleet. Cascade could see signal flags flying from the mast of the flagship, though she couldn't identify them through the clouds of gunsmoke and the spray from Kirin near-misses. Perhaps the Luna was having similar problems reading the signals? It could explain why the ship was not following its leader. Whatever the reason, she was happy about it. Any second now...
A loud, dull roar echoed through the submarine as the first torpedo struck. Cherry Cascade saw a towering plume of water rise above the deck of the Luna, which immediately began to heel over to port. A second boom followed, and a second tower of spray that washed over the battleship. A few more seconds would pass before the third and fourth torpedoes arrived, and time was precious.
"All astern one third. Make ready tubes one through four," she ordered. There were more battleships to target, and still time in which to do so- though not as much time as she would have liked.
"New contacts! Bearing zero-six-zero degrees," Verdant Vision called, though how he could distinguish incoming ships from the creaking and groaning of the heavily damaged battleship amazed his captain, even after so long on patrol. "Fast turn rate...destroyers, ma'am, at least three. Range is about fifteen thousand yards."
"Where did those bastards come from?" Cascade growled. She swung the periscope around and, sure enough, Verdant Vision was absolutely right. There were three destroyers looming out of the grey swell, having come out from behind the line of battleships somewhere. They were off to starboard of the submarine, near the smoking hulk that lay at the rear of the main Equestrian line of battle, blasted and buffeted by heavy Kirin shells. Beyond them she could see a trio of much larger ships, too; the Equestrian battlecruisers, going hell for leather to catch up to their flagship and get into formation. Oh, to have a clear shot at them, too!
But that was fanciful. The Formata only had enough torpedoes left for one more volley, unless she wanted to turn and bare her backside to the enemy to use her stern tubes as well. Best save that for an emergency, Cascade thought to herself. They would get one more shot at a battleship. The flagship, alas, was prow-on to them, presenting a minimal target. But as the third torpedo tore into the Luna's flank and the fourth missed astern, Cascade knew she had a chance at striking the third ship in line.
"Tubes one through four loaded!" someone sang out from for'ard.
"Helm, maintain course. All stop," she ordered, waiting for the opportune moment.
"Fire one, fire two!"
Again the submarine vibrated with the violent expulsion of air from her forward tubes as two more torpedoes left the vessel, streaking through the water. The Equestrian battleship was making emergency maneouvers to try and avoid a collision with the Luna, which was directly ahead of her in the line of battle, but would that help her?
No it would not, Cascade saw with a grim smile. The ship was turning to port, in order to pass to Luna's left and not impede the firing of the damaged ship's guns. That would put the third vessel in line to be struck by the torpedoes that had just been fired, or, if it managed to escape, the Luna would be hit instead. Either way, the fish would not be wasted. She took a sip of water from a flask at her hip before returning her eyes to the viewfinder.
"Range on those destroyers, phones?" she asked.
"Thirteen thousand yards," Verdant Vision replied.
"Alright. Engine room, all ahead two thirds. Helm, turn to port and steer heading three-three-zero," the captain ordered. No time to waste on seeing what happened to the battleships. The destroyers were getting closer, and ideally the submarine would be nowhere near where they might be expecting to find her by the time they arrived. The flagship had evidently relayed news of the Formata's presence to them, since she had been the only ship which had seemed to react to the first salvo of torpedoes, and...
"New contacts! Bearing two-niner-zero, range eighteen thousand yards. Light screws, fast turn count, more destroyers off our port quarter, captain."
Shit.
Part of the flank screen must be coming around too, closing in on their location. It was a pincer movement, almost like it had been planned all along. But it couldn't have been, or else the battleships would have reacted much more rapidly to the torpedo threat. No, they had definitely achieved surprise alright, but somehow, the destroyer escorts had been alerted to their presence. Now it was a dangerous race against the incoming ships, which had a much higher top speed on the surface than the submarine did below the waves, propelled by her electric batteries. Even if she surfaced to use her diesel motors, she would still be much slower than the destroyers who were now in pursuit of the hidden threat, their hydrophones pinging the water. Verdant Vision could hear them, shrill and piercing notes in his headset, reporting the issue matter-of-factly to his captain.
"Steer heading two-one-zero degrees. All ahead full," Cascade ordered. The batteries thrummed with silent energy, the prop churning the water behind the submarine as they began to drive to the west, hoping to get sufficiently far away to escape the closing net before one group of destroyers or the other managed to get in between them and the open sea. As they turned, one of their torpedoes struck the third battleship in line, while another, missing this new target, hit the already battered Luna. They had certainly done their job, and now it was time to run like hell. Heading east would take them under their own fleet, which might sound like safety. But the Formata was not operating under the direct control of the Kirin High Admiral in command; rather, she was an independent vessel who had been dispatched on patrol. The Kirin ships would not necessarily expect a friendly submarine to be in the area, and they had already reported encounters with Equestrian subs that had been trying to interdict their supply lines. Chances were high that the Formata[,/i] even if it escaped the Equestrian destroyer screens, would end up bombarded by depth charges from her own comrades if she headed east.
No, it had to be west. The destroyers in pursuit would not dare go too far from the fleet without explicit orders. Their first duty in a fleet action was to protect the capital ships, not to go gallivanting off like dogs chasing a hare. But if they could intercept the submarine while it was still in the area, that was a different matter.
"Make depth one hundred," Cascade ordered in a low voice. "Rig for silent running. Tubes three and four and both stern tubes are to stand by."
The crew scrambled to obey, as quietly as possible. They donned cushioned slippers over their feet to muffle their footsteps, stowed all loose tools away, spoke only in whispers. During the attack there had been necessary noises like the torpedo tube hatches being opened and closed, but that had been alright. There had been no destroyers in the vicinity. Now there were. Through the metal hull, Cherry Cascade began to hear the rhythmic beat of the destroyers' propellers as they closed in, the sound which Verdant Vision had been listening to for ten minutes over his headset. Hydrophoneers on board the surface ships would be listening, too, and a trained operator could easily detect the sounds made by a submarine, even one running 'silent'. It would only be a matter of time until they were being directly hunted down. if they weren't already. The destroyers were much faster than the Formata. Even the older models had a top speed of four times that of the submarine's maximum underwater velocity, while the newer classes of destroyer could outpace her five times over.
"Make depth one hundred fifty," Cascade whispered to the diving officer. "All ahead one third."
The submarine pitched downward and descended into the depths, smoothly, gently, sweeping the water aside with its pointed prow.
"Depth one-fifty."
"All stop," Cascade muttered in a hushed tone. The slight hum of the electric motors died away, as did the noise of the boat's propeller. All they could hear now was the whop-whop-whop of a destroyer's prop blades cutting through the sea above them. Verdant Vision gestured to the captain, held up two fingers, pointed upward. Two destroyers, not just one. The others were still closing in, or perhaps circling the area to cut off any escape routes, surrounding the submarine like a police squad swarming the house of a murder suspect.
Whop-whop-whop.
Whop-whop-whop.
The pitch of the sound changed. The destroyer was heading away from them. Cascade realised she had been tensing every muscle in her body, and let her shoulders relax a little. Her throat was dry, but she dared not reach for her water flask in case it made a sound. The nervous faces of the crew peered out of the semi-darkness like frightened kittens. This was the first time during their entire weeks-long patrol that they had been in any danger. The second destroyer closed in, its engines rattling, propellers swishing. It too passed overhead.
Verdant Vision tapped her urgently on the backside, the only part of his captain he could easily reach. "Depth charges!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
"All hands, brace...!" Cascade raised her voice loudly enough for everykirin in the control room to hear. They quickly relayed the signal to other compartments. Cascade's shoulders were tense once more. She kept a firm grip on the edge of the chart table with one hand and resisted the urge to look upward. It was instinctive, but she would see nothing but the metal of the pressure hull- the thin, oh so very thin metal.
The submarine suddenly shook and groaned. Lights flickered. A depth charge had exploded; not a near miss, perhaps fifty feet above them and slightly astern. But destroyers never dropped a single charge. They dropped them in patterns, in strings, rolling the metal drums from the fantail and into the water as the ship drove forward, trying to bracket the target. If the first depth charge missed, maybe the second, or the third, or the fourth would strike close enough to do damage.
More sudden shocks rocket the boat, more violently with each explosion. Cascade held onto the chart table as the deck beneath her swayed. It reminded her of the fair, the funhouse ride she had been to many times as a foal, where the walkway would rock back and forth and side to side as giggling Kirin children tried to navigate their way across it. There was no laughing now, though, just grim and half-panicky faces. Young Kirin who had never been under attack before. None of them had. This patrol by the Formata and her two distant sisters, wherever they were right now, was the first combat deployment of submarines in the Kirin Navy's history. It had been a successful one for Cascade and her crew, sinking one battleship and one oiler, and probably getting a second battleship just minutes earlier, as well as damaging a third. Now they could only hope it would not be a patrol cut violently short.
The destroyer's propellers and engine noise receded away, but another source of danger was approaching fast from astern; a second escort was sweeping in to parallel the course of the first, a hundred yards or so to the south of the leading ship, and that would bring them right over the submarine.
"All ahead two thirds, steer heading three-one-zero!" Cascade hissed. They would have to risk it. If they stayed where they were, the depth charges would come raining down right on top of them, like the shells which had been falling incessantly on Harmony Bay's defences for weeks. They had no thick concrete to protect them, just a painfully wafer-thin metal hull. Moving would make noise, but staying still would be even worse, especially if the Equestrian ships had their depth reading. The deeper the charges detonated, the closer they were to the submarine, the more damage they would do.
The Formata swung away to the north, her propeller cutting the water, a sound audible to a trained hydrophoneer, though probably not over the sound of his own ship's engines. That was why the destroyers were operating as a pair; the first ship, which had already passed overhead, was now sitting idle, her engines gently humming instead of rattling and throbbing, props softly swishing the seas instead of churning it up into a frothing wake. just enough to keep it under way, enough to be able to open the taps and move swiftly again if a torpedo were to suddenly break the surface, but quiet enough for their hydrophones to hear.
And hear they did. Evidently the two ships were communicating, either by radio or by signal lamps or flags, for the second destroyer suddenly changed course too, tracking the submarine and matching its turn toward the north. With that knowledge relayed to her by Verdant Vision, Cascade ordered an immediate turn back to port, back to their original westerly heading, hoping to throw off the destroyer. But the depth charges were already tumbling from their racks.
The first few exploded astern, and they were more accurate than the first destroyer's attempts had been. They were rippling out their concussive blasts through the water at a lower depth, too, adjusting for the sounds picked up by the hydrophones that allowed the pair of ships to roughly, but fairly accurately, guess the submarine's depth below the surface, and set their charges accordingly.
The destroyer passed overhead, moving faster than the submarine could ever hope to achieve, even at its reduced depth-charging speed. There was no outrunning it, and soon it became clear there was no outmaneuvering what was to come, either. The second ship completed its run and the first destroyer came back into play, on a reverse course this time, tracking the submarine through directions from its partner in crime, who had now adopted the listening role. Their second pass was much deeper, much closer, and much costlier.
The Formata rattled like a barn door in a gale. The lights flickered repeatedly, a strobing symphony of half-glimpsed faces creased with panic and stained with grease and dirt. A hard-working crew who could now do nothing but sit and wait and pray. Worse was to come. A near-miss shook the boat and filthy coolant water burst forth from a damaged seal in the machine room. Another shock shattered the lights in the forward torpedo room. A steam pipe split and scalded three Kirin, and then, disaster.
The deck heaved beneath Cascade's feet almost as if they had run aground. An almighty bang and a sound like someone crumpling flat a can of beans. Loud cries and a sudden darkness as the lights fused, then a few seconds of bright, flaring fire, then darkness again. The blood-red emergency illumination flicked back on after a second or two, but the unmistakable sound of flowing water could be heard from somewhere astern.
"Flood alarm, flood alarm!" someone shouted, all noise discipline suddenly gone. "Flooding in the battery compartment!"
Shit.
"Seal that fucking hatch!" Cascade called. A leak anywhere on the boat was bad, but in the battery room, it could be catastrophic. If seawater came into contact with the lead-acid batteries, it would produce clouds of choking chlorine gas, a byproduct of the chemical reaction that would result, and one of the ever-present deep-seated fears of submariners, along with fire and flood. Now the Formata was assailed by every one of these adversaries.
Kirin scrambled through the gloom, flashlight beams sweeping through the darkened compartments. The gushing roar of seawater could be clearly heard, drowning out the sounds of the destroyer's propellers overhead. It had done its job. The submarine was crippled, filling with water, losing power and facing the risk of asphyxiation. Captain Cascade gripped the periscope housing for balance as her crew desperately stumbled in the darkness. The emergency lighting was holding for now, in the control room at least. But the battery compartment was practically pitch black. Flashlight beams hardly seemed to penetrate the murk, like a thick winter fog. The first two Kirin to enter came stumbling back out, coughing and choking.
They shut the hatch, dogging it tight and spinning the locking wheel. But the two Kirin who had entered had been trying to reach the other hatch, wading through the chilly waters. The water and the gas might not have been flowing into the control room, but they were still flooding aft, into the engine room, the aft officers' quarters, and finally into the stern torpedo room. There was no response from that compartment. Nokirin was coming for'ard from there to close the other hatch and seal the battery room completely. They could tell even without visual confirmation, because the inclinometer in the control room was registering a steady change in the submarine's orientation. The bow was rising, the stern was falling. The rear half of the Formata was flooding, filling with water, becoming less buoyant with each passing second. The hatches had to be left open, even in combat, because the crew frequently had to move between stations rapidly. Sometimes they even had to gather at a particular spot to help lower or raise the bow as quickly as possible, to help with an emergency dive or to free the submarine with a kind of rocking motion if it became wedged on the seabed. But if the boat began to flood, they had to be quickly sealed. If the submarine became too negatively buoyant, filled with too much water, it might never rise again.
"Emergency surface!" Cascade ordered, keeping her voice as steady and level as she could under the circumstances. "Blow all tanks, fore and aft!"
The Kirin crew sprang to it, spinning wheels and opening valves. Compressed air was released into the ballast tanks, forcing the seawater within them out under pressure, great bubbling plumes of white froth filling the space around the submarine. It worked. They still had enough buoyancy- just. The Formata rocked and swayed, climbing. The depth gauge spun like a roulette wheel as they climbed, Kirin leaning forward like they were walking into a hurricane gale, trying to counteract the tilt of the submarine's deck. They were tail-heavy, but they were rising.
On the fire-swept surface, lookouts pointed and raised the alarm as a large patch of foamy white water began churning, springing from nowhere. It was near the last known contact point with the submarine. Guns were rapidly spun about on the dogged destroyers, hunting their quarry. The Formata crested the waves like a cork popping from a champagne bottle, her bow rising high into the overcast sky. It hung there for a momentary eternity, like a whale putting on a display for a nearby boat and their crew. Then it plunged back into the water and the rest of the submarine came into view, settling on the surface, ravaged and pockmarked by damage from the depth charges, water pouring in great rivulets from her gunwales and coaming. Hatches sprang open, and several Kirin appeared on deck. Shots from the destroyers, now converging on the submarine, threw up columns of water near her, but from her conning tower came a flag. A universal flag. The white flag of surrender.
The gunfire ceased, but as the Kirin crew began to clamber out onto the deck, something altogether more dangerous was coming right for them.
"Heavy screws, cap! Battleship, coming right for us!" Verdant Vision cried down below in the control room. In the cacophonous tumult of the depth-charging and the emergency surfacing operation, he had been unable to get clear readings on anything that wasn't directly above the submarine, and now that the hydrophoneer could hear again, it was too late.
"Get that flag up!" Cherry shouted up the conning tower's ladder. It was already up.
Kirin on deck waved their arms desperately as the mountainous steel prow cut a sharp track through the water. The Chevaline, in the process of completing its wide and lazy turn to port in order to first avoid the torpedoes and then rejoin its own battle line, was bearing down on the Formata. On her bridge, Blueblood's attention was drawn to the submarine ahead. His first response had been temporary panic, before the lookouts shouted that the Kirin boat was flying the flag of surrender. Asked for his order, Blueblood had suddenly felt a rush of anger. He peered out through the port-side windows at the burning wreck of the Luna. He issued his order, merely two words.
"Ram her."
With her turbines whining and props churning, at full flank speed, the Chevaline closed the gap on the stricken submarine with surprising rapidity. Some of the Kirin on deck jumped overboard in desperation. A couple ran for the deck gun in an even more futile gesture, only to find it had been half ripped away by the depth charges. The battleship's bow towered over the submarine like a mobile mountain. Cherry Cascade saw it coming through the periscope. She could do nothing. Her two loaded bow tubes were facing the wrong way, and the aft torpedo room, well...it was either flooded with water, or with toxic gas. If she dived, the Formata would never surface again. All they could do was take their chances. She gave the order to abandon ship, but there was hardly any time left.
The bow of the Chevaline sliced through the thin hull of the submarine like a surgical scalpel. Water flooded into the control room. Cherry Cascade flung herself to the deck as the grinding squeal of metal on metal filled her ears and made her head ring like a bell. All other sound was drowned out by the cacophony, until it was replaced by the gushing roar of water. She felt it splatter across her, water so cold it felt like fire, like the hot blood of one of her fellow crew was spraying onto her from some arterial wound. But it was the opposite of a dangerous bleed; the water was rushing in, not out. Already it was up to her knees as she steadied herself and regained her feet. The red lighting of the control room had been replaced by the gunmetal grey hull of the Equestrian battleship towering above her, and the steel-grey of the water all around her. Her eyes narrowed reflexively, not used to the sudden brightness. The control room, what was left of it, was filling up. She was practically floating already. Her boat was dead, and so was its crew unless they abandoned it in very short order.
Out, get out.
The artificial mountain passed by above, and as she peered up through the salt spray, Cherry Cascade felt a sudden moment of panic replacing her practised, experienced calm, maintained for the most part even through the depth-charging. It wasn't the bow of the ship she had to be worried about any longer. It was the stern.
She scrambled for the conning tower ladder, instinct taking over again, but there was no ladder. It had been torn away, perhaps still stuck to the prow of the battleship. She could hear them now, the thwomp-thwomp-thwomp of the huge propellers, driving the mighty behemoth through the sea. They would slice into the submarine at any moment, tear her completely in half, turn any unfortunate Kirin who got in the way into mincemeat. She had to get out, swim for dear life...or was it too late for that?
She lunged for the torn-open side of the submarine, trying to clamber free, but the ragged metal was as sharp as knives and simply tore into her palms. She ignored the pain, adrenaline coursing through her veins, but the boat lurched beneath her, pulled to the side by something, briefly caught on the anti-torpedo bulge or the anchor or some other protuberance of the battleship, and she lost her grip. The waters carried her for'ard, sucking her down beneath the surface. She banged against the hull, the chart table, something sharp and metallic. Underwater, the deep and resonant beating of the propellers was almost deafening. The captain was still inside her sinking submarine, and she knew she was dead.
"FInally, some good news!" Admiral Blueblood exclaimed triumphantly, as though sinking the single enemy submarine would win them the battle and the war. Having ripped the Formata in twain, the Chevaline had completed its turn with the other battleships following, the ones that could, at least. The Luna and the Avenger were already dead in the water. Blueblood was down to only three operational battleships already, and the Sol Invictus had been struck near the bow by one of the submarine's torpedoes. It did not impede her gunnery, but it did reduce her top speed, as only a patchwork effort could be made to stop up the hole in the hull, and going too fast would risk the sea bursting in and flooding some of the lower decks.
Blueblood ordered all ships to regroup, following his looping turn away to the west. This would buy them some time and breathing space as the Kirin turned to pursue. Then, it was hoped, once his destroyers, cruisers and battlecruisers were all together and in their proper formation again, they would stand a better chance of scrounging something approaching a victory from the dangerous and undergunned position they were in. Only now did Blueblood remember the cup of coffee his steward had brought to him some three-quarters of an hour earlier. It was stone cold as he sipped it. He strode to the open air of the bridge wing and poured it away in disgust. At that precise moment, he heard a cry from the other side of the bridge, the starboard side, facing the enemy.
"Smoke! Smoke on the horizon!"
Blueblood stormed back onto the bridge. "Smoke? Where? Which horizon, damn you?" he demanded.
"East nor'east, sir," the starboard lookout called. "Beyond the Kirin fleet."
"From Harmony Bay...yes! It's Strongbow!" Blueblood shouted, almost giggling like a schoolfilly in delight. "Finally, finally..." The fear seemed to drain from him, as if a valve had been opened somewhere. That elation lasted less than ten minutes. As the Home Fleet maneouvered, the distant smoke drew nearer, until the source of it began to reveal itself to the Pegasi observers bravely sent aloft during the slight lull in gunfire. Funnels and masts, yes, but there were no Equestrian pennants flying from them. Only the umber and white flags of the Kirin Empire.
Another half hour passed while the Kirin ships closed in upon their prey. The Kirin admiral had summoned reinforcements from somewhere, or perhaps they had been ordered there by their empress. Either way, the Equestrian observers had reported that the enemy would be getting at least five additional capital ships and half a dozen destroyers, plus a handful of cruisers. Whoever was in command seemed determined to utterly crush the Home Fleet, not just see it off and stop it from reaching Harmony Bay.
To the dismay of the bridge crew of the flagship, this news seemed to completely break Blueblood's will. Flag-Captain Champagne Crown watched on in a mixture of horror and anger as his admiral simply wandered away from his post. Crown sent the admiral's young steward after him, but Blueblood locked himself in his cabin. The steward pounded upon the hatch, but to no avail. He returned to the bridge and the concerned face of the Flag-Captain. With every passing moment, the enemy was closing in, and now they had been reinforced, more than replacing the losses they had suffered. Green Haze's charge had been the most successful period of the battle for the ponies so far, but replicating it would be tricky, if not impossible. Without a leader, the Equestrian fleet would soon slide into disarray. As soon as it became time to issue fresh orders, to turn the fleet, to change its formation...
Champagne Crown hurried down to Blueblood's cabin. He rapped his fist upon the hatch and called out. "Sir. Am I to take it that you are no longer in command of this fleet?"
No reply.
"Sir? As your Flag-Captain, I must inform you that if you do not reply, I will have no choice but to signal the Sol Invictus and transfer command of this fleet to Vice-Admiral Moonshot. If I recall your words correctly, sir, you said that you would not hand over command to her unless you were on the brink of death...that frigid bitch, I believe you called her."
The hatch opened. Blueblood had been crying, hardly something becoming of an Admiral in the midst of battle. "Thank you, Captain...just gathering my thoughts, that is all..." he responded. "I am still in command. Signal the fleet."
"What signal should I send, sir?" Crown asked, feeling great pity for his Admiral, despite his abandonment of his post, however temporary that might be. "Should I signal the retreat?"
"You probably should," Blueblood replied. "But you will not. Signal the fleet to make a turn to the north. Perhaps if we can get around them, we can make a run for Harmony Bay, get into range of the shore defences. Blast our way through their guard ships, save the city. We can be heroes still, Captain."
"Perhaps, sir," Crown nodded, but he shared the obvious pessimism he could hear in his Admiral's words. His voice, normally loud and bombastic, was quieter, almost cowed into a different timbre altogether by the enormity of their situation. "If the Sun and Moon are willing."
"And if they are not," Blueblood added softly, "we can be martyrs instead."
Greenshield gripped his rifle tightly, like a foal clutching at his teddy bear or blanket, for that was what it represented. A symbol of safety, however illusory that may have been in reality. To be sure, nothing else was going to keep him safe out there.
The first wave had moved out at eight in the morning exactly, the officers having synchronised their watches beforehand. They had started at a steady walk, or as steady as they could achieve in the fairly deep, settled snow. There was silence at first, nothing from the Kirin lines, no retaliatory artillery fire. The khaki-clad soldiers stood out against the white, but they were walking unmolested across the open ground. At first, anyway.
Once the infantry reached some undetermined point, so far as Greenshield could see it at least, the Kirin suddenly burst into deadly life. Starshells fired from mortars and flare-guns illuminated the landscape in brilliant, terrifying relief and brightness. Rifles and machine guns opened up, and tore into the ponies, who tumbled like bowling pins, screaming and clawing at bullet wounds. Mortar fire began to fall from the sky, throwing up columns of snow and dirt. The first wave had scattered, diving into shell holes created by their own artillery or crouching behind small rocks and boulders to gain what little cover they could. The officers exhorted them onward, blowing their whistles in a futile gesture, like a hoofball referee who had lost control of the game. At least half a dozen officers died inside the first minute of gunfire, easy targets for the Kirin even though, perversely, they blended into the terrain far more successfully than their soldiers thanks to their white greatcoats. Magic shields protected some, at least from direct gunfire, but when the Kirin artillery began to strike from far behind their line, it proved too much for even that otherworldly protection. Not many unicorns possessed magic strong enough to shrug off explosions. That kind of power was more the domain of the Alicorns, and there were no Alicorns on the battlefield. Not anymore, not since days long passed when Celestia and Luna would lead armies to war.
The first wave slowed down, and came to a halt entirely when they reached the Kirin's barbed wire. It was unbroken; the artillery fire was supposed to have blasted holes in it, coupled with sabotage parties creeping out in the dead of night, but the bright moon had precluded any safe wire-cutting, and the light field guns and mountain howitzers that comprised the bulk of the Equestrian artillery had not been powerful enough to blow the wire open. That meant it was down to unlucky ponies, selected to be part of the engineering and wire-cutting teams. Magic could slice through the metal, long explosive tubes, inevitably nicknamed 'sausages' by the soldiers, could blow a clear path. But not from a distance; they had to get right up close, and that meant they were right in the line of fire of the Kirin machine guns.
Greenshield watched on from the woods with a dry mouth and horror in his heart. He couldn't see every last little detail, but he didn't want to. He could see enough. The green and khaki-clad figures sprawled in the snow, the flicker of tracer fire, the fountains of dirt and snow and smoke from every shell and mortar round. He suddenly felt a great pang of pity for the Kirin who had been charging uphill into the maw of his team's machine gun back at the Yakfrost.
"Second wave, make ready!" Major Opal Blitz shouted from somewhere nearby. The cold, pushed to the back of Greenshield's mind by the slaughter unfolding ahead of him, suddenly returned and enveloped his chest in an icy grip. He looked round at the rest of his team. He had no words to say to them, nothing inspiring, no great speech, praising their noble goals. Instead he just settled for a simple nod as the best way to mask his own fear.
"Company ready!" Captain Fine Feather cried, sabre in hand, revolver hanging from its lanyard at her side, her whistle poised between her lips. The grim faces of ponies who had just watched their friends walk to their deaths gazed out to the low horizon, across the killing fields, the gates of Tartarus swinging open to welcome them. Final whispered prayers to Celestia were muttered, pendants and lockets adorned with her likeness were kissed for good luck.
"Fix bayonets!" Major Blitz ordered. Greenshield slipped his from its sheath and affixed it to the end of his rifle with shaky hands. The glint of steel caught the early morning light as it filtered through the trees. Then the whistles were blowing, all the way down the line. Major Blitz blew his, then Captain Feather blew hers, and then they were moving, moving, out through the edge of the wood, from the snow-spattered dirt to the ankle-deep drifts, crunching under their boots. For a brief and bizarre moment it was almost serene, and reminded Greenshield of being back home with his brother and father, many years ago, when the snows came regular as clockwork each winter, just in time for Hearth's Warming, and they would travel to the mountains to enjoy the scenery and the festive atmosphere. Crisp footprints in the snow, a family. Warmth, despite the cold.
Then the moment passed, and a shot ripped through the smoke ahead and raised a small puff of snow from the ground, and he was back in the cauldron of death. They passed the first few bodies, the unlucky ponies who were struck in the opening volley of Kirin gunfire, lying motionless in the snow, warm blood gently steaming as it pooled around them. There were more, sprawled in the shell craters, clutching blasted stumps that used to be limbs, whimpering in fear, soaked in blood and piss and mud.
Greenshield stumbled over some hidden tree root or stone beneath the snow, dropping to one knee, and that brief moment of providence saved his life. The whip-crack of a bullet echoed in his ears as it whizzed over his head. There was the shortest, faintest of cries, and he glanced back in time to see Easy Peeler, the machine gunner, swaying slightly, rocked by an invisible breeze, as blood poured down his neck from a coin-sized hole in his throat. The gun slipped from his shoulder and tumbled into the snow, and then the stallion went down beside it.
"Stretcher bearer! Stretcher bearer!" Greenshield shouted, clawing his way back through the snow. He knew it was the wrong thing to do; the doctrine and all his training said keep moving forward. It said to ignore the fallen, precisely because the stretcher bearers would be coming up behind to take care of them. Stopping in one place made you a target, and now with their Sergeant otherwise occupied the whole machine gun section would be leaderless, like a ship with a damaged rudder, until he got moving again.
But he didn't care. Easy Peeler was one of his, under his command. He was responsible for him. Maybe it was fear, looking for any excuse to stop himself from going forward into the maelstrom, or maybe it truly was compassion. Greenshield did not know for sure. In any case, his effort was futile, for a fragment of the bullet had sliced through Easy Peeler's jugular, and blood was spurting across the pristine snow with every beat his heart took. Greenshield tried pointlessly to stem the flow, his gloves soaked through with blood in moments as Easy Peeler's panicked, terrified eyes looked up at him, steadily becoming more and more glazed with distance as his death approached.
More ponies charged past them, and then someone was shouting at him, asking for orders. His orders.
Shit and blast it all! he moaned mentally to himself. Easy Peeler was dead, or would be momentarily, but the battle was not over. His unit were crouching low in desperation, waiting for him. Somepony picked up the machine gun, and Greenshield slipped back into the mechanical monotony of his training as easily as he had fallen out of it. Together, the Sergeant and his surviving troops rose once more, and strode toward the smoke.
The Home Fleet performed a surprisingly smart turn to the north, drawing the Kirin ships in pursuit. The Kirin admiral, sensing the ploy, had a portion of the armada swing the other way, looping back on themselves to head east and cut off the Equestrians from Harmony Bay. Blueblood, returning to the bridge of the Chevaline to a sea of averted eyes and rather nervous faces, ordered flank speed, summoning up every last pound of pressure that the boilers and turbines could produce, every last knot that the propellers could drive them to. It was not enough. The Kirin had the head-start; they were farther east when the Home Fleet made its turn. Ahead of them lay half a dozen battleships, strongly supported by cruisers and escorts. The rest of the enemy was now coming up behind. They were sandwiched between the two halves of the Kirin fleet.
The brief respite as the Home Fleet had surged through the frigid waters had given time for a much-needed break for the crews. At noon, lunch had been brought around for those who had the appetite among the blood and cordite. Bread, cheese, tinned stew and potatoes and a tot of vodka for everypony, all eaten with dirty hands, the vodka glasses clutched in trembling fingers. Some captains took the initiative and made it two tots of vodka for their crews.
At a little before one in the afternoon, the first flashes erupted from the barrels of the Kirin turrets as the mighty battleships turned to meet their foe once more. Their shots fell short of the Equestrians, but the range was shrinking with each passing second. Admiral Blueblood had no choice. His gambit had been seen by the enemy; not a particularly brilliant strategy, but short of turning and fleeing ignominiously back to Manehattan, there was little else that the Home Fleet could do except drive for Harmony Bay and try to break through the Kirin.
In echelon formation, the trio of Equestrian battleships and their battlecruiser counterparts began to return the Kirin fire. Lunch, it seemed, had given a boost to their gun crews, for they were more accurate than they had been earlier in the battle. The Chevaline's fire director, high atop the armoured masthead and above the acrid smoke of the funnels, could clearly see the shells from her fore-turrets lifting plumes of water just a few dozen yards away from their target, a big hulking battleship adorned with Kirin pennants. Shoals of destroyers filled the gap in between the two lines of capital ships, trying to fend off their opposing number and get in close to launch an opportunistic torpedo attack.
Blueblood, his nerves steadied with a few shots of vodka, knew that they had little time to force a breakthrough. The rest of the Kirin fleet were behind them, nipping at their heels like a pack of hunting dogs, and once they came within range, the Home Fleet would be under attack from both ahead and astern, and then they would be in real trouble. The Kirin had the advantage in numbers and firepower. The Home Fleet was already down two battleships. They could not afford to lose any more.
The first blow of this second phase of battle was struck almost out of the blue. An Equestrian destroyer, the Emerald, simply exploded as it closed in on the Kirin line, struck by a heavy shell that tore into its magazine. A casualty of happenstance, most likely, for the Kirin gunners would not have been focusing their fire on the small ships. Wrong place, wrong time, like somepony crossing the road without looking both ways and being run down by a tram. The Chevaline's gunners, meanwhile, were finally getting their act together. Shells struck the Kirin battleship that lay in her sights, doing at least superficial damage if nothing else. The flagship's fire director made notes in his book and relayed the signal via radio to the bridge and the gun crews down below. They fired again, and again, and now that they were on target, their aim scarcely wavered. The big guns thundered, the smoke carried away astern by the wind. The fire director peered through his binoculars. Shards of metal and wood were erupting from the site of each strike as the Kirin ship reeled under the hammer blows. One of her fore-turrets slumped listlessly, barrels depressed and useless like the heads of exhausted donkeys.
A loud roar like the passage of an express train made the fire director tear his eyes away from the binoculars. A huge plume of water burst forth from the sea as though a great monster from the deep was rearing its head. It almost reached the height of his perch atop the mainmast. Then something hot washed over the back of his neck, and he turned just as the mast began to sway, slamming him against the armoured wall. There was that roar again, loud and bloodthirsty and overwhelming. Smoke and sparks belched from the Chevaline's flank. They had been hit, somewhere abaft the beam. The fire director tried his radio but it was dead; shrapnel had cut the wires that snaked down the mast to the deck below. But the wires were inside the mast. Did that mean the mast itself was damaged, in danger of collapse?
He opened the hatch and peered down the ladder. Smoke from the Chevaline's own guns obscured his view. He wasn't meant to be looking in this direction. His job was to look outward, not down. But with no radio, how could he be of any use to the gun crews? Maybe he could patch the wires up. He had a rudimentary knowledge of electrics and wiring, after all, as part of his job. He lowered himself through the hatch and floated beside the mast, his wings beating a steady rhythm. The structure looked to be mostly intact, no serious flaws or major damage. Perhaps the radio had been damaged by the concussion from the blast, then. If that was the case, he'd need a new set, a replacement.
The next salvo from the Kirin battleship was just as accurate. Several shells missed by mere feet, while several more struck home. One bounced from the roof of the B turret before exploding. A thousand tiny knives were hurled in all directions by the detonation of the shell, shrapnel slicing through anything that was not armoured, including the body of the fire director, who tumbled lifelessly to the deck below. Another shell smashed one of the Chevaline's secondary turrets, killing its entire crew in a heartbeat.
Elsewhere along the line, the Royal Oak and the Sol Invictus were duelling with two battleships apiece. Green Haze's battlecruisers were firing in support, but the threat of Kirin torpedoes kept them from racing ahead to try and force a gap through which the rest of the Home Fleet could pour. Instead, the Equestrian ships broke upon the Kirin like a wave upon the shore, but like that same wave they then had no choice but to slink back out to sea, stuck at a distance while the rest of the Kirin came up from behind. To push through would be to run the gauntlet of a hundred torpedo tubes and the fire of dozens of guns both big and small. At best, it would ravage the fleet. At worst, it would annihilate them.
Blueblood, once again, dithered. He watched as the fleet obeyed his latest order and turned to the south to expose their full broadsides to the enemy in the hope that it might make a difference. But, perversely and frustratingly, the smoke from the funnels of their own escorts was now hampering the view of the capital ships, blotting out the sight of the enemy behind palls of grey. Once more, the temporary boost in accuracy seemed to wear off, like some potion coming to the end of its useful life. Shells were going wide of the mark again, not helped in the Chevaline's case by the failure of her fire-control system. Every moment they spent failing to break through was another moment wasted, as the bulk of the Kirin fleet closed the gap from astern.
"Sir, signal from the Sol Invictus. They are requesting new orders," Champagne Crown informed his admiral. "How should we reply?"
"Tell them..." Blueblood paused, eyeing his own hands as though they were covered in blood. "Tell them, and the fleet, that we press on. Reform the line. Inform the Third Division they are to take the lead. We continue south for five minutes, then swing to the east and drive right through the enemy."
"That is a...risky proposition, sir," Crown pointed out.
"So is remaining where we are," Blueblood replied. "We cannot go back, we can only go forward. Yes, only forward. Just like the infantry, eh Captain? No retreat, not one step backward."
"I wouldn't know, sir," Crown replied. "I've been a navy stallion for my entire service. Should I send that signal, sir?"
"Yes, Captain," Blueblood nodded, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Make sure the whole fleet knows."
Reforming, with the Third Division's battlecruisers in the van, the Home Fleet turned east again. The guns flashed and the shells screamed. To clear the way, every Equestrian destroyer and light cruiser unleashed a volley of torpedoes during the turn, hoping to force the Kirin to scatter and take evasive manoeuvres. It was partially successful; one Kirin battleship was struck twice and began to go down fast, while a Kirin cruiser and two destroyers were also dealt fatal blows. Vitally, the disruption also prevented the Kirin from retaliating with a full-scale torpedo attack of their own.
A few destroyers, however, did get their fish in the water, and the unfortunate Duke of Baltimare had a hole blown in her hull despite her best efforts at evasion. The venerable battlecruiser slewed to the side, but her guns kept firing, knocking out both forward turrets of one Kirin battleship. Kirin destroyers moved in to finish her off, but a screen of Equestrian escorts blocked them. At short range, however, they in turn were easy prey to the secondary batteries of the battleships, which pounded three Equestrian destroyers into burning hulks.
The Fearless, Green Haze's flagship, sliced through the water, leading the charge, her accurate gunfire putting the rest of the fleet to shame as she tore through two Kirin cruisers. A battleship loomed ahead of her, but she kept on, lashing out left and right with her secondary batteries and engaging the mighty Kirin warship with her main guns. Twelve-inch shells crashed into the Fearless, but she returned the favour, and one of the Kirin turrets exploded in a huge gout of flame.
Blueblood watched the carnage from the bridge of the Chevaline. His earlier fear had ebbed away to the back of his consciousness thanks to the fortifying qualities of the vodka he had consumed, and happily, it looked for a few minutes like they might force the breakthrough they needed and be able to charge east. The battlecruisers, now backed up by Blueblood's battleships, stormed through the gap in the enemy line, flanked by screens of destroyers and peppered with gunfire. It was like sailing through a hailstorm, but with every ball of ice replaced by a screaming shell. Here, a light cruiser burst into flames. There, a Kirin destroyer was practically torn in half by a broadside from the Triumph.
A shell struck the superstructure of the Chevaline, several feet below the bridge. Blueblood felt the plates buckle beneath him, and he stumbled against the helmspony, as though he were far more drunk than he really was. Smoke billowed up outside, obscuring their forward view. Somepony shouted for the firefighting parties to get to work. Shrapnel from a near miss pattered against the exterior of the ship. Suddenly they were sailing through a gateway of waterspouts, one on each side, thrown up by shells.
Champagne Crown kept one hand on the chart table to steady himself, and the other wrapped around a pair of binoculars, snapping his view back and forth, port and starboard. There was so much to look at. If they had been carrying an official photographer or war artist, why, he would have hardly known where to begin! Almost every angle would create a heroic portrait, an epic backdrop, a tale of true glory. This was the charge of the Home Fleet, to be writ large in the annals of history! The rugged (and drunk) admiral, leading his brave (and poorly trained) crews into the teeth of the (more numerous and accurate) Kirin guns, to save the besieged city of Harmony Bay! An exploit worthy of immortalisation in song, provided the rough details and dirty truths were airbrushed out of the historical record, of course. That, certainly, would be how the admiral would demand it. Crown knew his superior well; his arrogance, not merely a character flaw but a defining trait. His stubbornness, both admirable and pitiable.
Like their leader, the Home Fleet refused to back down or retreat. They stormed ahead into the Kirin fire, like the infantry swarming across no-pony's land toward the enemy trenches. Heavy fire raked them from stem to stern, but it worked. The Kirin battleship that lay in their path was suddenly shrouded in a huge cloud of steam. A direct hit; an armour-piercing shell had punched all the way down to one of her boilers, which had burst violently.
The range had closed to just a little over three thousand yards, short by naval standards, a product of the Equestrian charge straight through the enemy line. That meant that every battery in the fleet could open up, but it also meant every Kirin gun could, too. Their battleships inflicted a heavy toll on the Home Fleet as they tore through on their run east. They made it, but there was not a ship among them that did not carry some kind of battle damage. Several vessels were holed by torpedoes, others had damage to their steering gear or engines. The seas ahead were clear, but behind them lay the entire Kirin fleet, and now, they were faster. The Equestrian escorts could not plough ahead at top speed without leaving the capital ships behind. The capital ships were slower than the hungry Kirin destroyers and cruisers. With battle damage, they were slower than their Kirin counterparts, too. The Home Fleet had a brief head-start while the Kirin regrouped, and then the chase began anew.
The rest of the short afternoon passed busily for the crews of the Home Fleet. There was a lot of damage to try and repair, casualties to treat, debris to be cleared. The work continued into the rapidly-falling darkness. The fleet went dark at Blueblood's order, in the slim hope of losing their pursuers in the gloom, but the weather did not cooperate. There was a bright, stark moon overhead; no sea fog rose, though a brisk wind chilled the watchkeepers to the bone. The Kirin ships were like wraiths, silvery shadows briefly visible for a mere moment, then gone with the rising and falling of the waves. They kept a wary distance; did they too have a lot of damage to repair, or were they incapable of fighting at night?
Blueblood asked his Flag-Captain that question, and Champagne Crown had to bite his tongue to keep from rebuking his admiral. Of course they can fight at night, sir. That's how they hit Harmony Bay. How soon some of us forget.
They proved the point a little after midnight, when two of their battlecruisers opened fire at a range of twelve thousand yards. Though it was harder to see targets at night, it was not impossible, especially with prismatic viewfinders and a good moon. That meant it was not impossible to hit them, either, as one Equestrian destroyer found to its cost, struck bodily by a salvo of twelve-inch shells that wrecked her torpedo launchers, killed half her bridge crew and set a fire raging through the lower decks.
The tailchase continued for the next few hours, with every Kirin battlecruiser nosing ahead of the rest of their fleet and trying to pick off the Equestrian rearguard, one by one. The Sol Invictus and the Duke of Baltimare, their speed limited by their jury-rigged temporary bulkheads covering the holes caused by the Kirin torpedoes, were running a few crucial knots slower than the other capital ships in the Home Fleet, and they were the most tempting targets for the Kirin gunners. To help protect them, Blueblood ordered half a dozen destroyers to break off in tight turns and conduct a torpedo attack on the Kirin battlecruisers. But the enemy was ready for them, and manoeuvred swiftly, avoiding harm.
A short while later, the first shells rained down around the Duke of Baltimare. The battlecruiser was struck several times over the course of the next twenty minutes, pounded by three Kirin ships, concentrating their fire. The Duke of Baltimare's aft turrets replied as best they could, but it was inevitable now. The more the Kirin gunners fired, the more accurate they became, getting the range of their target and keeping it in their viewfinders. Deck plating buckled, the rudder was smashed, steam pipes split open. The Equestrian battlecruiser slowed even more, and Blueblood ordered the fleet to abandon it. As it drifted astern and its escorts fled, the Duke of Baltimare continued firing, duelling with a trio of Kirin battlecruisers while the rest of the Kirin fleet now raced by at flank speed to catch up to the Equestrians.
The valiant Duke died like its ancient namesake, a noblepony who had stood his ground with a brave hundred lancers at the battle of Bellhaven centuries earlier. Her guns flashed in the darkness, the spreading fires licking across her decks as the Kirin pounded her superstructure into ruin, killing her captain and most of her officers. One of the Kirin battlecruisers suffered a similar loss when a shell smashed into her bridge and tore her captain's head clean off with a burst of shrapnel, but it made no difference to the outcome of the unequal fight. The grand old Duke slipped beneath the waves at a little before four in the morning, taking her entire crew with her.
The rest of the Equestrian fleet drove onward, but the Kirin were moving in now, spurred on by their nocturnal success. They were closing for the kill.
The snow came early, earlier than the meteorologists had predicted. First in gentle swirling flurries, then steadily falling as the clouds grew darker. The wind picked up too, shaking the few surviving trees. Fresh earth churned up by the bombardment was soon coated in pristine white, as were the broken bodies of the fallen.
Greenshield lay just below the crest of a rise in the ground. Perhaps it was a snow drift piled up, or perhaps it was a line of rock covered over by a billion flakes. He neither knew nor cared. It was so cold he cared little for anything. through the swirling snow, his reddened, dry eyes could just about see Captain Fine Feather, the company commander. She lay face down in the snow, as still as midnight save for her thick greatcoat flapping in the wind. One hand still clutched her sabre in a death-grip, the other outstretched, fingers curled and stiff. She no longer had any legs.
Somepony else lay dead beside him, but he didn’t know who. He couldn’t tell; the dead pony had no face, just a bloody, frozen hole. Strewn across the snowfield, he could see several dozen black shapeless masses. They could be bodies or lumps of exposed rock, he couldn’t tell that either, though he certainly had a hunch.
The attack had failed, so far as he knew. His wave, the second wave, had pushed forward almost to the Kirin wire, but had been caught in the open by a mixture of shrapnel and high-explosive shells. He could only assume the third wave had met a similar fate. Greenshield himself had been knocked to the ground by a blast. Either the concussion from the explosion or striking his head upon a rock had seen him pass out for Celestia knows how long. Once he awoke, the rest of his section were gone. He didn’t know where. Thinking their Sergeant dead or incapacitated, they had presumably continued the advance, through the smoke and haze.
While he had been unconscious, the weather front had moved in. the wind whipped across the frozen wastes, bringing a deep and biting chill to the air. Every breath stung the lungs. He had no idea what the temperature was but he could tell from the tenderness of his exposed flesh that it was dangerously low. Touching a hand to his forehead, Greenshield could feel the congealed blood from the gash where he had fallen, the wound now clotted and flecked with snow. The cold was growing so intense that he couldn’t feel the throbbing pain in his head that he should have felt. Instead he was feeling numb.
He knew he had to get back to the relative safety of the Equestrian lines, where tents and campfires would offer at least some protection from the arctic blast and driving snow, but it was hard to translate that knowledge into action. His limbs felt stubborn, as though they were resisting him. His legs twitched as he tried to stand; his elbow slipped in the snow as he tried to prop himself up. Eventually he managed to rise to his knees, slouching against the wind. The snowflakes blew against his frozen face, half blinding him as he tried to blink them away. He began to shuffle forward, inch by inch, hardly seeming to make any progress.
Captain Fine Feather’s corpse was half covered by drifting snow, but Greenshield managed to reach her. He fumbled at her greatcoat. It was thick and fur-lined, and would help against the bitter chill, if he could only get it off of her stiff body. He tugged and yanked on the garment, but it was trapped under her body, and he didn’t have the strength to roll her over, so numb were his limbs. Her stern but handsome face was flecked with snow and blood, perhaps her own or perhaps not. Greenshield could not retrieve her coat, but he did pull a scarf from her neck and manage to drape it around his neck. But it was not enough. Not nearly enough.
After resting for a few moments in the chill gaze of the wind, Greenshield staggered to his feet. He turned away from the ridgeline they had been assaulting, and began the agonizing journey back to friendly lines and some semblance of safety. He knew it was his only chance of survival in the teeth of the blizzard.
But every step was an effort. His boots felt leaden, the snow felt like treacle. He was weak; his legs shook like an old arthritic stallion, and he fell more than once, dropping to his knees or falling face first into the snow with a grunt of exhaustion. He knew all he had to do was to keep walking and he would reach the treeline where they had waited for the assault to begin, but his body was yearning to simply rest, even though he knew it would be fatal.
Just another few yards.
They’ll be there, the rest of the unit. The Major will pat me on the back, give me some vodka. The medics will patch me up.
Just another few yards.
After a small eternity, Greenshield stopped and looked around. This wasn’t right. He had been stumbling through the drifts for long enough that he must have reached the treeline by now. The assault force had not advanced that far before he was knocked out. What little of the terrain he could see through the blowing snow did not look familiar, not that he expected it to. Even in clear air, everything had looked the same, just endless stretches of forest and snow.
Am I going the wrong way?
He could no longer see the bodies of his unit, the treeline, or the ridge. All identifying features seemed to have been wiped from reality, as though an artist, dissatisfied with his composition, had wiped away most of his painting to start afresh from a blank canvas. Greenshield turned back, or thought he did, retracing his footsteps, dark marks in the snow where he had already trod, at least for a while. Then came a momentary distraction, a cracking sound that may have been a bullet or a snapping branch, and when he looked down again his tracks had disappeared and he could not find them again.
Even in his cold-addled brain, panic, a dull throbbing panic, was beginning to set in. He kept on walking but each step he took required more and more effort from his sapping reserve of strength. He looked to the skies in despair, seeking Celestia’s guiding light or Luna’s glittering wisdom, but all he saw was more snow, billions of snowflakes filling the air. Dropping to his knees, Greenshield scrabbled forward, seeking the faintest glow of salvation through the darkness, but there was nothing there.
“Please...!” he whimpered, barely hearing his own voice over the whistling of the wind. “Celestia, please...guide me...” he begged with chattering teeth. It was still daylight, but the clouds and the snow were so thick that it may as well have been late evening, a deep winter darkness all around. The sun had vanished. All he knew was the bitter cold. His exposed face, formerly stinging from the chill, now felt numb. Each step though the deeply packed snow seemed slower than the last, each breath an expenditure of more and more precious and dwindling energy.
Where were the Equestrian lines? Hell, where were the Kirin lines? Even capture had to be preferable to this blind wandering with no goal in sight. Everything looked the same out here in the snowfield, just an endless expanse of identical white-capped trees and a sea of drifts for him to wade through. He no longer knew which way he was walking, how long he had been walking, what he was looking for. Had he walked through the Equestrian positions without noticing? Was he behind Kirin lines? Had he been walking parallel to both the entire time? The swirling blizzard and identical treescapes were impressively disorienting, like some kind of psychological magic spell was being used to ensnare and trick his frozen mind. Carrying on was hopeless, he decided. He could wander for hours and disappear in the vastness of the steppe. No, he would stop. He would settle down and wait for rescue. That was the only sensible option, his cold-addled brain told him.
Somepony will find me.
Spotting a little crevice in the shadow of a large boulder which had prevented the snow from building up quite so high, he stopped to rest, his back to the chill bare stone, wrapping his arms around himself, curling up against the winter's air. Yes, this would have to suffice. A little shelter was better than nothing, wasn't it? He no longer felt quite so cold, anyway. In fact he was sure he was warming up. His hands and feet felt a lot better than they had done when he was wandering through the forest. Yes, this was better. It was almost like being at home by father's hearth, with the logs crackling upon the fire.
Ah, no wonder it feels warm suddenly...!
Looking up, a shadow seemed to come over him. It was a pony, tall and regal, like a statue, bathed in a brilliant light, mighty wings outstretched. Yes, Celestia had finally heard his prayers!
The radiant princess smiled benevolently, her divine countenance holding a warmth like that of a mother for her foal. She held out one elegant hand and beckoned to him.
"This way, my child..."
"Your Highness...you came..." Greenshield had heard tales of miraculous rescues, when Celestia or Luna answered some desperate plea from a dying soldier, a drowning sailor, a trapped miner or the like. He had always dismissed such things as the fevered hallucinations of a panicked mind, yet here she was, in all her resplendent beauty, a golden beacon for him to follow through the forest to salvation. Summoning his strength, he rose to his feet and staggered toward the princess. "Take me home! Take me home..." he begged. 'Let me see father...let me see my brother again..."
Yet each step seemed to bring him closer to divine grace. She was always out of reach, no matter how hard he strove to get to her, as though she were merely an artefact of some visual defect, a scratch on his cornea that remained constantly in the same place. Her appearance had given him hope, but now his legs were growing weak again. He could not reach her. He dropped to his knees in wordless obeisance, a silent prayer for her aid. Yet now her face, so beautiful, regal and elegant, was blank, just a canvas of plain skin concealing her features. Her eyes, deeply entrancing, were gone. Even as he watched, he could see he was no longer looking at the princess. She was morphing, changing, shimmering and shifting as though seen in stop-motion through the endless barrage of snowflakes pelting him. Now it was somepony else.
"Brother...!" Greenshield cried, using the last of his strength. Greenwood, his elder sibling, stood before him, proud and martial in his navy uniform. He looked just like he had done the last time the two had seen each other, in the dockyard at Baltimare. It seemed a lifetime ago now, after so long in the frigid north, in battle, fighting for survival.
"We will meet again soon," Greenwood spoke, his words ringing and echoing in his brother's ears. 'I promise."
"Yes..." Greenshield sighed as he slumped forward, face down in the snow. "Soon..."
Dawn, when it came, was late out at sea. The ragged Equestrian sailors had to wait for their breakfast, because the cooking fires of the galleys had been doused hours ago as part of battle preparations. A few hard-tack biscuits passed around and a few swigs of unpleasantly warm water, the only water of such temperature to be found anywhere for a hundred miles of frigid ocean, had to suffice.
In the engine rooms, rugged earth pony stokers toiled like mad things, sweating and heaving the coal into the boilers while the engineers tried to wring every last fraction of a knot they could possibly get from the ship's propulsion system. It could all count; every tiny bit of extra power could make a huge difference.
In the turrets, restless gun crews sat nervously playing with icons of Celestia or sun-moon medallions. Clad in their dark blue overalls and white anti-flash hoods, they looked less like ponies and more like spacemares from some speculative science-fiction novella. They would be in action again soon, though in some cases the few remaining rounds in the ready-racks were all they had left. The magazines were dwindling, the fleet having been in action for most of the previous day.
On the bridges, anxious captains peered through binoculars over windswept whitecaps. They were still there, the entire Kirin fleet, smoke belching from their funnels. Any moment now, they would come into range again, and this would see an end to the fighting one way or another.
In the Admiral's cabin, Blueblood took a steadying tot of vodka, despite the early hour and lack of sleep, and wearily made his way through the companionways to the bridge, passing sullen and stone-faced junior officers on the way. The quick report he received from his flag-captain was equally bleak, but there was nothing else to be done except surrender, and, for a pony as stubborn as Blueblood, that was anathema.
The lead Kirin battlecruiser opened fire at a little after eight-thirty, a single shell whistling down a hundred yards astern of the Royal Oak, the sternmost battleship in the Equestrian formation. Another round landed considerably closer, and then shells began to rain down as every Kirin capital ship let fly with their fore-turrets. At Blueblood's order, half a dozen Equestrian destroyers began hard turns and fired off a volley of torpedoes in response. Several other escorts were unable to comply, having expended all of their underwater ordnance already.
Meanwhile the Kirin escort vessels fanned out and moved away, leaving only a few cruisers guarding the main battle line, knowing the Equestrian fleet could not, or would not, turn to engage them. Their destination, Harmony Bay, was obvious. The Equestrian Admiral, it seemed certain, was running scared, praying to reach the protection of the naval base's big coastal guns that might offer respite for his beleaguered fleet. Yet without a miracle that seemed an impossible task. Their ships were slowed by damage, pursued by a superior Kirin fleet who could pick them off almost at leisure. If they turned to fight, they would surely die, yet if they kept on running, they would just die tired.
Blueblood chose to keep running, even as shells began to accurately fall around his ships. One unlucky destroyer took a mighty twelve-inch shell to her boiler room and disappeared behind a gigantic volcano of steam. The Royal Oak received a glancing blow to her stern turret, concussing almost every crewpony within as the metal shook like a giant bell. The Chevaline, with her deputy fire director taking over the role of her dead superior up in the observation mast, managed to score a strike on the bow of one of the Kirin battlecruisers, but it hardly seemed to matter. The big ship just kept ploughing forward through the waves, wreathed in smoke every thirty seconds as her fore-turrets opened fire.
The Chevaline herself was not immune to return fire. A heavy shell striking the port quarter turned one of her lifeboats into matchwood and tore away one of the anti-air guns, mercifully unmanned at the time since the wingless Kirin had no option to carry out an aerial boarding operation the way Pegasi or Griffons might. Another shell blew a hole in the superstructure just aft of the radio room, badly wounding the radio operator who lost most of his right arm when shrapnel tore through the bulkhead.
The Kirin destroyers steamed ahead of the Equestrians, kept at a distance by gunfire from their own escorts, but the pony vessels were helpless to prevent the Kirin from reaching firing positions in the path of the Home Fleet. A full volley of torpedoes, almost a hundred in all, began to race toward the straggling line of capital ships, half from the north and half from the south, to keep the rest of the Kirin fleet, which lay to the west, out of the firing line. Blueblood, once more beset by panic, ordered evasive manoeuvres. The big ships began to turn, some one way, some the other, lookouts straining desperately to see the tell-tale trail of bubbles that marked an incoming torpedo. With so many fish in the water, it would be very difficult to avoid them all, and what was potentially even worse, turning to evade broke the Equestrian formation completely. The fleet started to fragment, moving in all directions, some speeding up, some slowing down in their efforts to avoid the torpedoes.
The move was mostly successful, with dozens of torpedoes harmlessly sailing by in between the Equestrian ships, but the Royal Oak was struck just abaft the beam and holed below the waterline, while one of the cruisers practically had her bottom torn out and sank with frightening rapidity. The Equestrian ships had lost all momentum, the Kirin were closing in for the kill, and Blueblood's capital ships were now mostly lying broadside to their enemy, presenting a bigger target for the accurate Kirin gunnery. The pursuers began to turn to bring their full firepower to bear.
Blueblood's earlier panic had given way to a weary resignation, the depressed state of a broken stallion who knew it was all over. As the Kirin ships began to fire their full broadsides, Blueblood simply wandered off from the bridge without even a word. Champagne Crown hurried to his cabin, banging on the door and pleading with his Admiral, who had locked himself in.
"Sir! The fight is not yet over. We need your orders, sir!" he begged. "What are your orders? Please, Admiral..."
"There are no orders!" Blueblood moaned, vodka bottle in one hand and his service revolver in the other as he sat slumped upon his bed. "What orders do you want? I can give you nothing but death!"
"Then order us to die, Admiral!" Crown replied desperately, as the ship rocked from another hit, then rocked and groaned again as her own batteries returned fire. "For the Sun we will gladly give our lives, but we cannot just...just...fade away!"
"Why not?" Blueblood muttered. "Better to fade away than to be a laughing stock! The glorious Home Fleet and its magnificent journey! Its heroic charge, the brave stallions and mares riding to the rescue of Harmony Bay...it's all just a lie, Captain! All a lie, and all perpetuated by me.' He took a deep swig of vodka. "I told them. I told the Princess, I told Strongbow and the rest of his boys, I told the world that we were coming. And then what? We came, we saw, and we fucking failed!"
Crown pressed a palm against the door. He did not know what he could say to make the Admiral snap out of his fugue. Last time, the day before, the threat of Vice-Admiral Moonshot taking over his command had been enough, so Crown tried again.
"Am I to understand sir that you are no longer in command of the fleet?" he asked. "Should I signal the Sol Invictus to take over?"
There was a long, drawn-out pause, then the clink of glass. "Yes," Blueblood finally replied. "Tell Moonshot she has command."
"Yes, sir," Crown replied with a heavy sigh, partly of relief and partly of sympathy. With Blueblood in his current state, he was no use to the fleet at all, liable to either make a terrible decision or no decision at all, which could be even worse. At least Moonshot was more stable, no doubt standing firm on her bridge even now and wondering what the hell was going on aboard the flagship. Her taking command, however, was not likely to significantly change the prospects of the fleet. After all, they were still outnumbered and outgunned, a long way from Harmony Bay, and unable to outrun their pursuers, and now the fleet's formation had practically fallen apart. Even a competent officer could only do so much when dealt a bad hand to start with.
Crown was reluctant to leave Blueblood alone in his cabin, but his duties lay elsewhere. He was still the Captain of the Chevaline, and unless they were ordered to surrender by their new fleet commander, the crew of the battleship still had their duties to perform. He headed back up to the bridge, leaving Blueblood locked in with his memories, cringing every time the ship's batteries fired and the whole vessel groaned and creaked from the vibrations.
A message was quickly relayed to the Sol Invictus, which became the new flagship. Vice-Admiral Moonshot raised her colours to the masthead and took command of what remained of the one-proud Home Fleet. Her first order was the same as Blueblood's last; continue eastward at flank speed, or as near to it as the battered flotilla could maintain. There was little alternative.
An hour after Blueblood had ignominiously relinquished command and locked himself in his cabin, the Home Fleet's situation had become even more precarious. Though the transfer of command had inspired some new hope among the captains of the fleet, and Moonshot had succeeded in corralling the fleet fairly quickly and getting them back on course, the Royal Oak, holed and limping, had been left behind, and her captain had struck her colours and surrendered in order to save his crew from drowning. With the white flag flying from her mast, the battleship had been evacuated by two Kirin destroyers, who kept their triple-barrelled torpedo tubes trained upon her at all times, ready to finish the job in case of any trickery.
The surviving ships were slowly succumbing to the punishing pace of the pursuit. None of the capital ships had all of their main batteries operational after steady and accurate Kirin fire. One of the destroyers suffered a complete shear of the overburdened propshaft and found herself dead in the water and also forced to fly the white flag. Casualties were mounting, including on the Chevaline where a Kirin shell had plunged down through the armoured deck and detonated below, wiping out half a dozen compartments and fifty ponies in the process. Successfully reaching Harmony Bay seemed increasingly unlikely.
Vice-Admiral Moonshot ordered the Sol Invictus's radio room to put out continuous calls for assistance, but the atmospheric conditions were poor and she could not even tell if the messages were getting through. They were certainly getting no reply. Another hour passed, then another. One of the Equestrian cruisers took a direct hit to her aft turret and a blinding fireball blazed spectacularly against the leaden sky. The Kirin made no effort to close the gap, content to sit at range and allow their more accurate gunnery to slowly whittle down the Equestrian fleet. It was a long way to Harmony Bay, after all, and the cover of the shore batteries. The Kirin had all the time in the world.
"Ma'am! Smoke on the horizon, bearing zero-one-zero. Dead ahead of us!"
Moonshot's tired eyes took to her binoculars once more, only this time looking forward instead of astern. There was indeed smoke, pallid grey, difficult to distinguish against the similar sky. More ships. The Kirin had called in another squadron from somewhere to trap the Home Fleet and end the pursuit once and for all. They had broken through the Kirin once. They would not be able to do so again, not in their current state. Surrender of the entire fleet was not an option, for the honour of the entire navy would be irreparably tarnished for centuries by such a humiliation. There was no third course to take.
"Ma'am! Masts on the horizon," the Pegasi lookout floating above the ship relayed down to the bridge via radio headset and a long trailing wire. "At least half a dozen."
"Do you see flags?" Moonshot asked wearily. The Kirin ensign would be flapping proudly in the breeze, no doubt.
"Yes ma'am...yes! Admiral! They're ours!" the Pegasus cried jubilantly.
"Are you sure...?" Moonshot strained her eyes to peer through her binoculars, still only seeing the wash of smoke against the tattered backdrop of cloud, but from high above the ship, there was no mistaking the flags that were fluttering from the mastheads of the incoming vessels.
"Yes ma'am! I see the Sun, and the Moon," the mare shouted ecstatically. "It's the Northern Fleet!"
Moonshot's grimace slowly but surely turned into a steadfast grin of determination. "Strongbow you old bastard. What the hell took you so long...?"
The Defiant had joined the rest of the Northern Fleet and sallied forth from Harmony Bay the previous afternoon. The bulk of the Kirin squadron which had been bottling them up in port had suddenly disappeared, presumably, so Admiral Strongbow surmised, called away by Kirin high command to assist with another target. That could only mean the Home Fleet, and that meant Blueblood must have been sighted by the Kirin, and could not be too far away.
Coastwatchers had tracked the Kirin ships and reported them heading west-south-west, which ruled out a resupply trip back to the Kirin Empire. They were definitely heading to battle, and so Strongbow ordered that the Northern Fleet would be, too. This was the break they had been hoping for. The Kirin no longer had the insurmountable force outside the harbour that they had possessed before. They had left some ships behind, but Strongbow decided it would be possible to push through them.
So it had proven. The Northern Fleet had charged out, three battleships and one battlecruiser leading almost a score of smaller warships to face the Kirin guard patrols, which had consisted of two battleships and half a dozen cruisers. A swift tactical manoeuvre, expertly executed by the seasoned sailors of the Northern Fleet, had split the Equestrian capital ships from the escorts in a pincer movement. The Kirin vessels had turned to engage and prevent the breakout, but now they had to contend with the danger of a torpedo attack from one side and heavy gunfire from the other. The Equestrian destroyers raced at full speed to firing positions on the seaward side of the Kirin squadron before turning to engage, forcing the Kirin ships away from the danger and closer to land. One of the Kirin battleships strayed into range of the shore batteries in an effort to avoid the torpedoes, and paid the price, bombarded into a smoking wreck by the massive sixteen-inch cannons.
The rest of the Kirin ships had succumbed either to torpedoes or the guns of the Northern Fleet, and Strongbow then ordered them to set course to, hopefully, rendezvous with the Home Fleet. They had sailed all night at flank speed, knowing that the Kirin could be engaging their compatriots at any time. By the time dawn came, the engine room crews were exhausted, despite the different shifts being rotated steadily through the night. Not long after first light, a lookout had spotted smoke on the horizon, then reported flashes, likely from heavy-calibre guns.
On the Defiant, Greenwood had stood by for half the night at his duty station on the bridge. Back in action having recovered from the gassing he had suffered at Fort V, he had insisted upon re-joining the ship when hearing of the impending departure, even though he was entitled to several more days' convalescent leave. Anything was better than being potentially sent back to one of the hellhole forts protecting the city, after all. Nothing had ever made him more glad to be a sailor than those days underground in the dusty, shivering darkness.
After grabbing a few hours rest and fitful sleep in his cabin, Greenwood was back on duty as morning came. The Celestial Spirit sent out messages via signal lamps; at Strongbow's command there were no radio messages exchanged after leaving Harmony Bay, so as not to potentially alert the Kirin that they were coming. If they could catch the enemy by surprise, it might just tip the balance in their favour. The Admiral ordered action stations, and with a whooping of sirens and the constant clang of klaxons, the fleet made ready to fight. Greenwood took up his position at the port torpedo launcher, wrapped in his scarf, greatcoat and cap as protection against the frigid plume of air that hung over the Great Eastern Sea.
The torpedo crew were ready, raring for more action after their little scuffle outside Harmony Bay. The Defiant had let off a single volley as part of the diversionary attack which had forced one of the Kirin battleships toward the shoreline, and the starboard launcher had been able to fire again at one of their cruisers, but Greenwood's port-side launcher had not had an angle on the second vessel. Perhaps they would get their chance soon. After a few minutes, even the crews down on deck could see the funnels of numerous vessels appearing on the horizon.
This is it.
The Celestial Spirit ran up a flag to the top of its foremast, a red cross on a blue and yellow background. This was a signal intended for the Home Fleet, and Vice-Admiral Moonshot quickly spotted it through her binoculars. The three fleets were quickly converging, the Kirin in hot pursuit. The shutters of signal lamps chattered aboard both flagships as they relayed commands to the rest of his fleet, and just when it seemed like the two Equestrian flotillas were going to collide, a beautiful ballet unfolded.
The Home Fleet suddenly parted, following the signal flag from Strongbow which had ordered pass either side of me. It was a signal usually reserved for ceremonial parades, where the Admiral or visiting dignitary aboard one vessel would see the rests of a squadron or fleet pass by on both sides of him or her, allowing them to review the passing ships and their crews standing to attention at the railings. This time, however, Strongbow had used it as a means of getting the oncoming Home Fleet out of the way of his guns quickly.
The capital ships of the Northern Fleet passed through the middle of the battered Home Fleet, and from his torpedo station Greenwood could quite clearly hear cheering. Sparing a glance as the escorts passed through, he could see grimy faces, stained and weary from battle, manning the secondary batteries aboard one of the Home Fleet's battleships. It looked a mess, with smoke rising from a recent hit astern, charred metal and splintered wood everywhere, one of the rear turret's mighty barrels randomly pointing upward at a drunken angle while the others were depressed practically as far as they could go, the mechanical guts of the turret evidently having been smashed into uselessness by a shell. But from the wildly waving arms of the crew, it seemed they had that most precious of resources. Hope.
Judging by the state of their ships, that must have been in short supply until they saw us coming. I just hope we live up to their expectations...
A mighty roar heralded the Celestial Spirit's opening salvo. The Kirin were coming into range of the capital ships, and Strongbow's ships obeyed his earlier orders, flashed by signal lamp. They spread out into firing formation and brought their bow turrets to bear, while the escorts began to race out toward the flanks. The Kirin had slowed down since their lookouts had reported the alarming news of incoming ships, and suddenly the situation did not seem as rosy for them as it had an hour earlier. Their fleet began to turn to avoid a head-on collision between the two sets of capital ships, bringing their broadsides to bear but also opening themselves up for a torpedo attack.
"Standby...!" Greenwood called out to his crew. Spray flashed up from the sea as the Defiant picked up speed, the bow pitching steadily as it cut through the water. They would get the order and the firing angle soon, no doubt. He licked his cracked lips studiously, one hand hovering near the firing stud. The main batteries of all the Equestrian capital ships were blazing away now, half-deafening despite being thousands of yards away as the destroyer squadrons turned away.
"Port and starboard torpedo launchers, make ready," came the voice of Captain Oakheart through the speaking tube. "Load all tubes, standby."
"Load tubes one through three!" Greenwood ordered. Barleycorn, the earth pony crew chief, oversaw his ponies as they sprang into action, sliding torpedoes into each tube and slamming each hatch closed.
"All tubes ready for firing, sir!" Barleycorn reported. Greenwood nodded and relayed the same message to the bridge as another cloud of spray washed over them. Oakheart was driving the Defiant hard, eager to reach a firing position. Another destroyer raced alongside them a few hundred yards away to port, and he knew there were others dotted all around.
What a proud sight it must be! Here we go, to battle once more! If I don't come through this one, dear brother, tell father I love him and that I'm sorry...
As one of the Home Fleet's battlecruisers passed by at a safe distance, Greenwood could see a familiar flag flying from its mast, and his heart soared. It was a three-striped green flag of different shades with a soaring eagle crest, the personal ensign of Commodore- now Rear Admiral- Green Haze.
Uncle! Uncle is here!
He found himself grinning at the idea of the old sea dog getting to take part in a proper battle, finally, after so long in charge of coastal defence around Manehattan and a host of other positions. His uncle had long been an excellent squadron commander and battlecruiser tactician, but there had simply never been a major naval war before in his distinguished career where he could put such skills to the test. Now, at last, he had his chance.
Greenwood felt like he should wave, but he doubted Green Haze would be paying attention to one of any number of other ships passing by and would hardly be likely to spot and identify his nephew among the chaos of battle. Even peering at the battlecruiser's bridge, Greenwood could not see his uncle, but he decided he might be able to relay a message to him through Captain Oakheart once the fighting was over.
If I'm still alive.
Some of the Kirin cruisers were moving to cut off the Equestrian destroyer squadron, and it was not long before shells began falling around them, raising waterspouts uncomfortably close to the Defiant. Oakheart was not deterred, however, and they sailed onward, closer to the Kirin capital ships, into torpedo range. It was within the range of the Kirin's big guns, but luckily their battleships were occupied duelling with Strongbow. The survivors of the Home Fleet were now looping back, under Moonshot's more decisive leadership and with their spirits buoyed by the arrival of reinforcements. Suddenly the Kirin were no longer the masters of the Great Eastern Sea.
"Port torpedo launcher, standby. Target Kirin battlecruiser, bearing zero-one-two."
The order came down from the bridge, and Greenwood nodded to Barleycorn. The torpedo crew were no longer stripped to the waist as they had been during their pirate encounter back at the start of their tour of duty, for that had been in the stifling tropics, but they still did not wear the same heavy greatcoat and weatherproof gear as Greenwood. Sleeves, lapels and buttons just offered something to get caught in machinery, which could prove timewasting at best and fatal at worst. The crew wore their undershirts and trusted in their natural hardiness- almost all of them were earth ponies, who tended to be more resistant to climatic extremes even at sea- to keep them frostbite-free. The strenuous nature of loading torpedoes and hauling the launcher about helped work up a sweat even in the chill of the arctic north. The launcher was aligned on the correct bearing, and Greenwood hovered over the sight and the firing stud.
Another blast of spray showered over them, but this time it was not from the natural motion of the ship, but rather a near-miss. Two Kirin cruisers stood in the path of the destroyer squadron, blazing away with their ten-inch guns and secondary batteries. The destroyer racing along beside them took a hit on its superstructure, smoke and sparks belching forth from the buckled metal plating.
"Port torpedo launcher, tubes one through three, fire!"
Oakheart's order was met with an instant push of the firing stud. Greenwood's eager hand reacted quickly, and one by one the three torpedoes were ejected from their tubes by loud thumps of compressed air, splashing into the ocean and racing away toward the battlecruiser some seven thousand yards distant. The helmspony swung the wheel and brought the starboard launcher to bear, its crew adding their own projectiles to the salvo. The neighbouring destroyer managed to launch all six of her fish also, and began the hard turn away to port. The Defiant followed, sweeping a graceful curve through the water.
The Kirin cruisers now found themselves in the path of a full spread of thirty torpedoes for which they were not the intended targets, and began panicked manoeuvres to avoid them. One succeeded in bringing itself about and slipping in between the silvery trails of bubbles marking each torpedo's path, but the other was struck a glancing blow that ripped a hole in the stern. Greenwood watched her slow to a stop with grim satisfaction, her rudder and propellers destroyed.
The Kirin line began to deform as the big ships manoeuvred to avoid the torpedoes, but at the same time the Kirin destroyers were trying to engage the Equestrian capital ships also. It was a dangerous game to be playing for the little ships, caught below the curtain of heavy shells and exposed to the secondary batteries of the Kirin line. The Defiant took a hit to the stern quarter, sending sparks and smoke flying. Greenwood ducked instinctively and heard the rattle of shrapnel pattering off the deck and superstructure of the destroyer.
It was not only the Kirin line that was falling apart, however. The Equestrian battle formation was bending and breaking as individual ships manoeuvred to avoid torpedoes or to keep their main batteries on bearing to finish off a crippled foe. One of the Equestrian battleships suddenly burst into flames as it was struck by something heavy, blazing brilliantly like a torch amidships. The Kirin flagship was charging forward, weaving between torpedo wakes and keeping its main batteries steadily hurling death toward the combined Equestrian fleets. It was leading the main Kirin force, which was still keeping order and following their leader even as the rest of their formation broke apart. Something had to stop them before they carved a hole in the Equestrian fleet.
Manehattan Harbour was a grand place, home to both civilian liners, merchant ships and, on the western spur, the largest Equestrian naval base anywhere in the nation. The city it served was equally grand- if Canterlot was the jewel of Equestria, then Manehattan was its beating heart, ever thrumming with the activity of some four million ponies, Zebras, Yaks, Griffons, Diamond Dogs and a dozen other species besides. Its factories and workshops churned out an endless array of manufactured goods for the population of the whole world, to say nothing of vast quantities of weapons, ammunition and materiel for the Equestrian war machine. The naval yard in Hooflyn, one of the city boroughs, was the largest of its kind, and many of the largest ships in the fleet, including the Celestial Spirit and the navy's flagship, the Chevaline, had been built there.
Now it lay at anchor out in the roadstead, off to the side of the harbour, away from the shipping lanes in and out through the narrows that fed the great bay with the cool waters of the Great Western Sea. The Chevaline was a sea-monster, a great, ponderous behemoth of a ship by anypony's standards. Some five hundred feet long, if the Chevaline were stood on its end it would have been the second tallest thing in Manehattan, behind the Pony-Life Insurance Building. Her nine twelve-inch guns in three triple turrets made her a deadly danger to any ship afloat, while her secondary batteries, consisting of six eight-inch guns, and a collection of six-inch and four-inch guns that made up the tertiary batteries, could pepper a target with a hailstorm of smaller shells. Her other selling point was her armour; thicker, stronger and mounted across the ship, not just in key locations, the Chevaline could take a pounding as well as dishing it out. Anything less than a ten-inch gun would have almost no chance of penetrating her armour, and even heavier shells could simply bounce off or fail to penetrate. Most other battleships lacked this complete coverage, but the Chevaline was the flagship not just of the Home Fleet, but the entire navy, and had been designed accordingly.
She was Admiral-Prince Blueblood's pride and joy, and with good reason, for not only did she have the biggest guns and thickest armour, she also had the best crew. Blueblood had made sure that the cream of the fleet's offerings made their way to his ship. The hardest workers, the most patriotic ponies, the best gunners and finest stokers and most accurate navigators; all were siphoned off to feed the Chevaline's enormous crew of over a thousand. That made her a formidable warship, but it also had the unfortunate side effect of reducing the number of well-trained and experienced officers, petty officers and crewponies to supply the rest of the fleet.
That was one of the reasons why, though the Home Fleet was the largest of Equestria's naval assets, it was widely considered to be one of the weakest, too. Since the Equatorial Fleet was the one which tended to see the most action, mostly against pirates, many of the best-trained seaponies were to be found there, down in the tropical heat. That was where one gained experience of combat. It was said that a good seapony would experience life in each of the four fleets to complete their training as a true sailor; the Equatorial Fleet to learn how to fight, the Northern Fleet to learn true sailing and the weather, the Overseas Fleet to learn diplomacy with the locals, and the Home Fleet to learn how to drink.
Admiral-Prince Blueblood had spent the past few days engrossed in documents and papers, poring over every detail of the fleet's logistics and readiness. It was not something he was accustomed to, having a large personal staff to sort through what he considered routine paperwork and take care of it themselves, leaving him to answer the most important correspondence- such as invitations to the theatre or a cocktail party, for instance.
Nevertheless, the fleet needed his attentions if it was to complete its monumental journey to reinforce the Northern Fleet. It was a long, long trip- over ten thousand miles by sea. There were two possible routes the Home Fleet could take- around the southern tip of the continent, or through the northern passage. Blueblood's choice, however, was made for him by the season, for winter was spreading its chill grip across the land, and the northern passage was completely blocked by ice, and would be for at least three or four months. That meant a journey south, instead, through the stultifying tropics and then up the entire eastern coastline. After examining all the relevant documents, Blueblood was aghast to find that it would require his ships to stop for coal at least four times on the way- far from the swift and decisive move he had promised the Princess.
Even with the fleet colliers accompanying them, they could only carry so much of the vital, dirty fuel each capital ship required. Blueblood's battleships and heavy cruisers were hungry beasts, needing teams of pony stokers constantly at work to keep the fires burning in the boilers and the turbines spinning. That was part of the reason why the Royal Equestrian Navy had spread its reach so widely across the lands of the world, for a network of coaling stations and overseas bases had been vitally important since the invention of the steam turbine. No longer reliant on the wind, an infinite, though extremely unreliable, source of power, the navy needed coal and oil to keep its ships moving. A battleship had a maximum unrefuelled range entirely dependent on how much coal it could carry on board, which was never enough, and certainly not for a massive journey such as the one being planned for the Home Fleet. Colliers and oilers could accompany the fleet on its voyage to top up the tanks and bunkers of the other ships, but once their own supplies were exhausted the fleet would still have to dock somewhere to take on more. That limited their effective operational range, and made Blueblood's planning a headache.
To make matters worse, not every coaling station on the route was even under Equestrian ownership. At least one was Griffon-controlled, and depending on the stance the Griffon's leaders took with regards to the war, they might not be allowed to stop there at all. If the Griffons decided to remain studiously neutral in the Kirin-Equestrian conflict, then, at least in theory, no military vessels of either combatant nation would be allowed to dock at any Griffon-owned port or fuelling station. That left a large gap in the route, meaning the fleet might have to take on extra coal at the previous waystation- not just filling their bunkers, but literally loading the decks with it to make sure they had enough range to reach the next Equestrian coaling spot.
After days of tearing his hair out over the proposals and nervous drinking while worrying he had promised something his fleet might not be able to deliver, Blueblood and his advisors finally had a definite route mapped out. All that remained now was to provision the fleet, assemble the crews, and leave. A simple proposition- at least in theory.
Taking a launch out to inspect the fleet, Blueblood had been appalled to discover from his lowly vantage point skimming the water that many of the cruisers and battleships showed signs of rusting and fouling around the waterline. That was meant to happen after weeks at sea, not when sat in port, where the crews, in theory, were meant to keep the vessels ship-shape and well painted to avoid such maladies. It was not a professional look- the fleet was meant to represent the power and strength of the Princesses, and rusty ships with peeling paint and barnacles encrusting the keels did not exactly do a good job of that. More practically, it was a problem because the accumulation of rust corrosion and unwanted marine life had a deleterious effect upon the ship's speed and fuel efficiency, and that efficiency would be key in their long journey around the continent.
Blueblood's anger was quick to bubble to the surface at the best of times, and he had exploded at the hapless crew of the little launch he was sailing on, haranguing them about the lack of preparation and the poor maintenance of the fleet, all the while forgetting, or deliberately side-lining, the fact that ultimately, as Admiral, it was his responsibility to see that his ships were kept ready for duty and in good condition. The launch crew were not even from one of the ships, but rather from the shore installation at Manehattan's naval base, a part of the fleet but certainly not responsible for the cleanliness and good order of its ships.
Upon his return to the dockside, Blueblood had immediately drafted and issued an order for all ships to be painted and properly cleaned of any fouling, debris and rust. It was an important order, but it would add at least a few days to their preparation time- paint had to be sourced and purchased, or requisitioned from the fleet stores; divers had to go down and use magic, welding torches or scraping tools to clear everything away as best they could. It was difficult, tedious work, and could only accomplish so much- to truly cleanse the ships' hulls and keels would require a spell in dry dock, where specialists could get easy access to them without having to don a diving suit or deploy an oxygenation bubble-spell. More to the point, it was an order that should never have needed to be given. The ships' crews were supposed to keep their ships ready for war, even when they were in harbour. A basic level of readiness should have been maintained at all times, but evidently, many of the officers in charge had not bothered to keep up with such tasks.
So what else might be in dire need of improvement before departure? Morale, it was widely held, was the poorest in the Home Fleet, and the best in the Equatorial Fleet. The reason for that was simple; the Equatorial Fleet actually fought and sailed, bringing a taste of Equestrian justice to the pirates of the archipelago. The Home Fleet had done very little of note in recent years, and most of her crewponies spent their time gambling, drinking and whoring- and so did the officers. While that was a common thread across all four fleets, the Home Fleet both had the greatest opportunity to indulge, and tended to suffer the least recriminations for doing so, for Blueblood, despite his bluster, was mostly an absent commander, having a joint role as Admiral of the Home Fleet, but also Admiral of the Navy, the highest ranking officer of the service, member of the advisory chiefs, and responsible directly to Princess Celestia. In practice that meant he spent as much of his time as possible schmoozing, attending grand parties and balls and banquets, and sleeping with aristocratic ladies and noblemares, instead of attending to his fleet and his crews.
That was all well and good when in port for most of the year, but now that the Home Fleet was being called upon to spring into action, it did not bode well, for when Blueblood actually drove himself to something, he forced those around him to work as hard as they damn well could to achieve his goals. A lazy fleet with ill-trained ponies and a missing commander, that was suddenly transformed into a warfighting machine with a tyrant at its head?
That could very well spell trouble on the road ahead, and it was a very, very long road to Harmony Bay.
The mountains were cold. As cold as anywhere Greenshield could remember, and it was only the first week or so of winter. Wind whistled down the Yakfrost Pass, cooled by the altitude as well as the season, driving down the glacial valley as a howling gale, like vengeful spirits in the night that tore at the canvas of their tents. The pass had seemed pleasant enough when the 45th Regiment, now reunited as a single unit, had arrived, marching steadily up the slopes, a thin layer of dying grass under their feet whenever they strayed from the dirt road. Exposed granite walls, bare, weathered rock, rose vertiginously on both sides, framing the pass below, where uneven bulges of earth and rock from ancient landslips now created an effect rather like a lumpy blanket across the landscape, bunched up toward the eastern side of the pass, leaving the western side much smoother and flatter, though still in a gradual incline. The track, a road only in name, cut through this flattish area, tunnelling through the first of the mini-peaks before the valley opened out slightly and the road ran straight to the north, where the valley's head had two exits, one to the northwest, and one to the northeast, which headed to Yakyakistan.
The Yakfrost Pass had always been well-defended ever since Equestria had conquered the land and made it a subjugated state. Its strategic importance had never troubled the ancient Yaks, for they were nomadic, and until the Equestrian Conquests none had ever dared to try and invade the Yak homeland. A castle had been built by the ponies at the northern end of the pass, and now that had been replaced by a mighty, modern fortress, all concrete and steel and long-barrelled guns, tucked in below the enormous pyramidal peak of granite and snow that formed the northern edge of the glacial complex. That was the point of no return; lose the fort, and lose the entire pass, leaving the way open for the Kirin to advance on Yakyakistan.
To prevent that, several strongpoints had been created in the pass, occupying the high ground atop the ancient landslides, which had long since settled into hills and ridges. Bunkers had been constructed here, two in total, each with a revolving, domed turret housing two heavy-caliber artillery guns which could dominate the pass below. Other connecting galleries and pillboxes offered observation points and machine gun coverage over the slopes and the track below. Any enemy forces pushing along the lower western side of the valley would find themselves subjected to plunging fire from mortars and mountain howitzers, as well as the emplaced turrets, the equivalent of a main battery aboard a heavy cruiser.
As well as these permanent fortifications, a network of trenches and wire had been dug by the 45th Regiment and the other units now stationed there to defend Yakfrost. Field guns had been dug in behind sandbags and earthen ramparts to protect the tunnel, which was rigged with explosives ready to be collapsed if necessary. Land mines had been planted on the flat ground, the approaches to the hills and their steep slopes being well-seeded with the hidden devils. The Chapel of the Royal Sisters, a local temple complete with handsome spire, all built from the local stone, had been ringed with trenches and protected positions and was expected to be the first line of defence when the Kirin came.
Greenshield and the rest of the 1st Battalion were stationed on the ridge between the tunnel and the high ground above it. They had been kept busy digging, hard work in the tough rock. When entrenching tools had been inadequate, explosives had been used to blast the rock. Where that failed, magic was concentrated into an intense cone by several unicorns and used like a welding torch to melt through the granite and limestone. The trenches were lined with timber logs for protection, and topped with earth-filled sandbags. The barren region did not offer too much in the way of supplies for either resource, and the valley, left to grow and be as fertile as it could be in times of peace, had been almost entirely stripped of what few trees there were. More timber had been ferried up from the rare boreal forests that lay to the north of Yakyakistan, around a huge lake where the ancient Yaks had once hunted down rival tribes.
It was cold on the mountain. That, Greenshield told himself, would be his one abiding memory of this place, if he survived. It was bloody cold. He enjoyed hikes in the hills, and playing in the snow as a foal, but this was something different. The snow had only fallen lightly since they had arrived, but it was enough. If it snowed no more, he would be a happy stallion. The crisp coating crunched underfoot as ponies stomped about, trying to keep warm as they lugged sandbags and boxes of ammunition from strongpoint to strongpoint. The trenches the 1st Battalion occupied were far from cosy. Duckboards for a floor and rough logs covering the walls, with the bare rock beneath. It was no simple task to dig fortifications under such conditions, and it had cost the Equestrians a lot of money to build the bunkers and fortress. That had been accomplished over the years and mercifully had been given enough attention to keep the guns functional and the fortifications in good condition.
Sitting on an upturned ration crate, Greenshield tried, with trembling, gloved hands, to write a letter. Other soldiers passed him by, moving their way down the narrow trench, stepping over the legs of slumbering ponies and squeezing through gaps where groups of squadmates had stopped to chat. It was, he soon decided, too cold to write, and in any case he had already written Dear Brother before crossing it out and writing Dear Father instead, which is what he had meant to write in the first place.
He tucked the paper and pencil away and stood, making his way along the trench. Somepony was playing a familiar folk tune on an accordion, and the smell of fresh bread was wafting in from somewhere on the breeze. If he didn't know any better, he could have almost been lulled into believing it was a pleasant place to be- but only for a moment. Then two ponies pushed past him, carrying a machine gun and its tripod, followed by a slender mare with two metal boxes of ammunition in her hands, and he was quickly and rather brutally reminded of the reality.
He continued on. Here, there was a dugout, where Major Opal Blitz sat poring over a map of the area, half a dozen extinguished cigarettes adorning his empty tin mug of coffee. There, he could see a pony peering over the parapet of the trenches with a periscope, an odd arrangement at first but one which made good practical sense, for it allowed her to observe the valley below without exposing her head to a sniper's sight. Farther on, he passed the latrines, dug in a setback beside the main trench, where two mares squatted side by side, casually chatting while shitting into the deep, buried buckets that would be doused liberally with quicklime during the occupation and eventually burned once the position was evacuated.
Farther down the line, Greenshield came to his machine-gun section, set up with a good field of fire for their weapon, aimed downhill toward the track. The chapel could be seen in the distance, at the bottom of the valley, its spire standing tall and proud, the Equestrian flag flying from its tip. Spotters occupied the spire, ready with a field telephone to relay calls for artillery fire to the positions upon the high ground. There were more guns farther back, at the fortress, and they were big ones, while other pack-howitzers and mountain guns occupied key positions in the defensive line. Mortar platoons were dug in to sandbagged emplacements, ready to lend a helping hand once the Kirin got into range.
"How are you doing?" Greenshield asked Easy Peeler, the orange unicorn who had been wounded at Calico Bridge.
"I've felt better, Sarge," he replied with a grunt. "This damn cold is playing havoc with my wound."
Greenshield nodded. Easy Peeler had been hit in the side by a bullet, and treated at the regimental casualty clearing station once the 1st Battalion had linked up with the rest of the unit. His side was bandaged, cauterised with magic and dusted with antiseptic sulfa powder, and though he had been offered the choice to be evacuated to Yakyakistan for rest, he had volunteered instead to return directly to his unit. A brave, or foolish, move, it was certainly showing the kind of spirit which was greatly appreciated by the commanders, earning him a Personal Citation, the lowest form of commendation it was possible to receive, but a commendation nonetheless. It would bode well for his future military career, if the enemy were kind enough to let him survive this campaign.
"Good lad," Greenshield found himself adding rather condescendingly, because it seemed like the sort of thing a Senior Sergeant should say, even though he was only a year older than Easy Peeler. It was the nature of war, and in the Equestrian Army and Navy, it had been the way of peace, too. Those barely older than the ponies they commanded were to be given respect not because of their age, but because of their rank- regardless, in some cases, of whether or not they had earned any of that respect through their actions.
"Any chance of a cup of tea to warm us up, Sarge?" one of the other troopers called.
"I think there's one on the way," Greenshield replied with a nod, though in truth he had no idea. Best to tell small lies, sometimes, if it would help keep morale up. That was one of the rules he had been taught.
"Alright boys and girls! Stand to!" Opal Blitz suddenly roared, emerging from his dugout. "Stand to! Scouts report hostile forces moving toward the valley. Looks like they're heading our way, so get ready. Contact is expected within the hour."
"You heard the Major..." Greenshield grunted. "Stand to!"
The trenches suddenly burst into life. The two mares who had been using the latrines suddenly scurried out from the side trench where they were located, hastily fastening their belts. Other soldiers began to ring well-placed bells along the line to spread the alert. Machine guns were loaded and checked, rifles unslung, helmets placed squarely upon nervous heads. The enemy was on their way, and the 10th Corps would be waiting for them.
A Pinprick In The Shroud Of Heaven
The news of the Kirin setback at Yakfrost Pass was received with great cheer among the denizens of Canterlot when it was reported in the newspapers, several days after it had actually happened. The word took time to travel, and even when it did, important war information could be withheld from the civilian press for days- sometimes weeks- if it was deemed to be in the national interest to do so. The unvarnished truth was only ever known by the military top brass and the civilian leadership, namely the two royal sisters. The prism of propaganda could quite easily distort a stalemate into a major victory, or a crippling defeat into an act of courageous sacrifice and determination, by the time it reached the ears or the eyes of common ponies.
Little such spin was needed to spread the word of the success at Yakfrost. It had been a victory, a potential turning point in the war. The Kirin advance, hitherto relentless and uncontained, had been halted at long last. If the fates were with Equestria, that could delineate the farthest reaches of the Kirin's territorial ambitions. If they could be contained, the word on the street said, then they could be crushed, driven out to sea, back across the water to their distant, mist-shrouded homeland, no more to trouble Equestrian shores. The mood in the city was upbeat, for this was the first positive news that had been received since the war began.
In the war council chamber, things were less cheerful. Superficially, the defence of the Yakfrost Pass was a victory, something to be proud of. But Princess Celestia and her advisors knew that the reality was rather different. It was a victory, but it was only the beginning of their troubles in the east. Northwick province was almost entirely in enemy hands, save for Harmony Bay, and large areas of southern Yakyakistan province were also under the Kirin's sway, though the capital city itself was not, thanks to the defenders at the Yakfrost Pass. If the port city fell, then so would the last bastion of Equestrian power in Northwick. That, in turn, would free large numbers of Kirin soldiers and artillery to press home the attack on Yakyakistan City, and complete their stated aims of liberating both provinces.
It would still take a number of weeks to mount anything approximating a major counteroffensive. Troops were massing in Yakyakistan, and on the Equestrian border to the west, but time was needed. Precious, elusive time, trickling slowly through the hourglass with every shell hurled at Harmony Bay, and every day of expended rations, mounting casualties, and eroding morale. The siege had to be lifted, but that too would take time, weeks at a minimum. Either the land armies would break through and relieve Harmony Bay, or Blueblood's fleet would arrive and drive away the Kirin navy. That, at least, was the hope.
Poring over detailed maps of the city and its environs, Celestia's advisors explained how likely Harmony Bay was to hold out, and for how long. If either the fleet or the relieving armies were timely in their arrival, it was deemed likely that the city would hold out, unless the Kirin somehow managed to completely overrun their defences and take the city by storm. Harmony Bay had supplies of ammunition and food that would be sufficient to sustain the garrison, the fleet crews and the civilians for several months at a minimum, barring nothing untoward happening. General Snow Meadow had cautioned that the Kirin might try to use shelling or airship bombing as a means of inflicting damage upon the city's resilience by targeting storehouses and ammunition depots, but nopony could say for sure how much intelligence the Kirin may have had about the locations of such targets.
Minister Copperhead had repeatedly urged caution over expectations both from the fleet and the speed at which any ground troops might be able to mount a major assault. Much to the consternation of the Princess, he had pointed out the obvious, that which had been deliberately overlooked in the understandable rush to do something, anything, about the invasion. The Home Fleet, despite Blueblood's pompous, blustering assertions, was not an experienced force. Other than minor anti-pirate activities, they had done almost nothing for a century, spending most of their time in port polishing brass, or on mostly pointless, half-hearted exercises just outside Manehattan Bay. Furthermore, Copperhead pointed out with just a modicum of tact- for the Admiral was a distant relative of the Princess- Blueblood was not exactly the best commander the navy had ever seen. His leadership style, Copperhead described as abrasive. His tactical genius, essentially present, but broadly lacking in depth and nuance.
The minister then turned his sharp tongue on the army, for it was in no better state to fight a major war than the Home Fleet, for the most part, he asserted. Most divisions had been equipped with the most modern machine guns, submachine guns, mortars and artillery, but again the experience was lacking. Only a few divisions had been committed to the Mare-Isle operation, and it had been many a year since there had been any other large-scale conflict for the soldiers to get their teeth into. Despite intensive training and classroom instruction at the war academies, junior officers, for the most part, lacked any field experience at actually commanding under fire. Senior and staff officers, Copperhead complained, were still ready to fight the previous war, not the current one. This was worsened by the fact that the Kirin were, for the most part, an unknown, a lacuna in the war manuals. How they would act in battle, on the defensive at least, had yet to be determined, but they were aggressive and agile in the attack, both on land and sea. There was no reason to think they would be any different when it was the Equestrians who were on the offensive. They made good use of artillery to support their movements, and seemed plentifully supplied with machine guns. As shown at Yakfrost, they also used air support to drive home an attack, something that the forces of Eastern Command lacked, for most Equestrian airships were deployed elsewhere, to counter the potential threat of those of other nations, notably the Griffons. Nopony had even known that the Kirin possessed such craft until the reports from the battle had started to flow in.
The two advisors offered different views to the Princess, but both shared the same basic conviction. Equestria would be triumphant, of that there was, ultimately, no question, for her resources far outstripped those available to the Kirin, in terms of soldiers, armaments, and money. There were two main questions that remained unanswered as the war council departed that evening; would the city of Harmony Bay hold out long enough for those resources to make a difference, and how many Equestrian lives would the Princess be willing to sacrifice to make sure that Yakyakistan and Northwick were brought back under her control?
Far to the south of the capital where the war council had been meeting, the sea was dark and wild. The outer bands of a swirling late-season hurricane were whipping up the scudding waves, frantic low clouds crowding out Luna's moon and the bright winter stars above. Into this disturbed picture sailed the ships of the Home Fleet, a straggling string of ships great and small.
Blueblood had spent most of the day in his cabin, abed with seasickness, not a fine quality for an Admiral to possess, though certainly not unknown. Even some of the finest sailors of old suffered from the malady, and Blueblood, despite a naval career that had seen him serve aboard destroyers, cruisers and battleships, did likewise. The debilitating condition that afflicted many ponies was made considerably worse in bad weather, as the ships, even the mighty Chevaline, heaved and tossed like bucking broncos in the storm-wracked waves. As the fleet had pushed on through the dull overcast of the afternoon and into the inky blackness of night, the fringes of the hurricane had closed in, unavoidably crossing their path, driving its way toward the wind-blasted southwest coast of Equestria, not far from the border with the Griffon Kingdom, a part of the world well used to the pounding of hurricanes and tropical storms as they drifted their way northwest from the vast open ocean that lay between the mainland and the archipelago.
Blueblood's Flag Captain, Champagne Crown, had suggested they should linger to the west of the storm cell and wait for it to pass and weaken over land before continuing on. But the Admiral would not hear of it, despite his respect for the relatively young unicorn stallion who commanded the Chevaline. The dashing and handsome captain, it was said, was perhaps the only other office that Blueblood would listen to besides himself, a check on his inflated ego, though only in a twisted way. Champagne Crown reminded Blueblood of himself, went the theory. To further expound on that, the rumour-mongers below decks insisted that the pale yellow stallion, with his trimmed, waxed moustache and shining green eyes, was not just Blueblood's subordinate, but also his secret lover- because somepony as narcissistic as the Admiral of the Fleet could only ever love another who reminded him of himself.
These rumours, as were most that swirled below decks like the hurricane outside, were false, but that did not stop seaponies from believing them. Even on the Chevaline, the ship where the crew might be expected to be the most loyal to their Admiral, who had hand-picked most of them from the rosters of other vessels. Ponies down on the pitching gun-decks and swinging in their hammocks discussed many things to while away the hours, and the qualities- or lack thereof- of their leaders was always a popular topic, so long as no officers were nearby to overhear them. The last-minute order to clean and polish the ships ready for royal inspection and the missing pre-departure feast they had been promised had not sat well with the hard-working crews. While most of them respected their officers and adored their Princess, this whole campaign seemed to many to be something of a personal crusade by Blueblood, who had committed the Home Fleet, despite its lack of training and experience, to just about the longest possible voyage it could undertake. Why?
To win the war, Blueblood would argue. To defeat the Kirin, send them packing across the water and liberate Northwick for the crown once more. But that was not how many of the sailors under his command looked at things. It seemed to the more politically astute and cynical amongst them that Blueblood had hot-headedly committed the fleet to prove something- either his loyalty or skill- to Celestia. There must, they theorized, have been some other solution the government and the Princess could have taken that did not require them to sail so far into unknown dangers. Were they being sacrificed on the altar of Blueblood's vainglory?
Any such talk, of course, was dangerous, as it bordered on mutinous discussion. Whenever such words were overheard by officers, it was clamped down upon with anger, though those junior officers, many of whom shared similar convictions regarding the nature of their mission, sent such discipline no farther up the chain of command, but rather kept it amongst themselves. Keep your mouths shut if you know what's good for you. Don't let the Captain or the Admiral hear you talking like that. I won't report you, but another officer might.
Flag Captain Crown suggested keeping the fleet to the west of the hurricane, but Blueblood, seasickness be damned, had other ideas. That, he told his subordinate, would be an unacceptable delay. It would be at least a couple of days before the hurricane had completely passed, and those days might make all the difference between saving Harmony Bay and losing it to the Kirin, to say nothing of the damage to his personal reputation if the mission he had staked it upon were to fail. Instead, the Admiral had ordered the fleet to sail through the outer bands and pass to the east of the hurricane before the worst of it reached them. It would be an uncomfortable night and morning, but they could not afford to slow down.
Nature, however, had other plans for the fleet. As they ploughed through the heavy seas, their speed naturally dropped as a consequence of the great troughs they were wallowing through, natural depressions in the sea after each passing wave-crest. The wind was blowing the sea into a fury. Spray burst over the prow of each vessel like champagne spilling forth from a newly opened bottle. The few unfortunate souls called for deck-watch were restricted to the bridge wings and observation posts which were relatively safe to occupy, for anypony daring to venture onto the actual weather-deck, especially the slick wood or metal of the forecastle, would be in serious peril of being washed overboard, like a spider down a drain, by the periodical deluge of foaming, frothing water that would come thundering over the prow as the ship slammed down into the next trough. Below decks, ropes were rigged in companionways and compartments to act as handrails when the crew were moving about, something to hold onto as the deck gave way beneath their feet and the bow plunged down into yet another trough.
The smaller vessels, destroyers and minesweepers, were tossed and shaken by the heavy seas, but even the battleships were struggling to make good progress, being battered by chill winds and pelted with rain. It was difficult to keep track of other ships, as much for the high waters as the darkness. Lookouts on the bridge wings of each vessel held their thick waterproof coats tight about them, though within moments of stepping outside they were soaked to the skin anyway, for even their oilskin trousers, coat and hat could not keep the rain and spray from their bones for long. Water poured into their eyes as they strained against the dark and cold to see that their vessel was not on a collision course with another. Once relieved of watch duties, they staggered inside for a tot of rum and at least a few minutes with their head beneath a towel and over a basin of warm, steaming water, carefully gripped between the knees in case it should slop and spill. A pat on the back from a petty officer, and then it was down below to their bunk, to try, mostly in vain, to catch some sleep while the deck tossed and turned beneath them like a pony having a particularly cruel nightmare.
Blueblood, medicated with whiskey, lay curled up in his bunk, tucked away in his cabin with a precariously balanced metal basin on his desk into which he would vomit whenever the natural ebb and flow of the seas dictated its necessity. Though his desk had a coaming around the edge to prevent things sliding off in rough seas, the growing violence of the hurricane threatened to dislodge it nonetheless.
As Admiral, Blueblood's cabin was a significant step up from the living quarters of the rest of the crew of the Chevaline. A bunk the size, almost, of a true double bed, a mahogany writing desk, golden trim on the fixtures, a private bathroom, thick, shag carpeting and a drinks cabinet kitted out his quarters. Suitable for an Admiral it may have been, but his cabin was yet another source of resentment from the lower ranks aboard the Chevaline, whose cramped, shared bunks or hammocks strung up on the secondary gun-decks were not exactly the height of luxury. Even the senior officers and Flag-Captain Champagne Crown resided in small and relatively spartan cabins. As the flagship of both the fleet and the entire navy, the Chevaline had been built with an Admiral's comfort in mind; but not only an Admiral's. There was one spare chamber, as lavishly furnished as Blueblood's, intended for grand dignitaries who might wish to take a tour aboard the vessel and spend a day or two at sea as part of a good photo opportunity for the newspapers. It had been designed with the Princesses in mind specifically, but neither of them had ever deigned to spend more than a few hours aboard, and there had been no need for its use. It sat empty, though Champagne Crown gave its hatchway a longing look every time he passed it, for it would have made a fine upgrade from his austere cabin.
While hammocks, inhabited by most lowly seaponies aboard the battleships and cruisers, were designed to swing with the sea and the motion of the vessel, even they, the most nautical of sleep aids, could barely cope with the tossing waves of the storm-whipped ocean. The secondary gun decks where many ponies slept were battened up tight, their gunports secured and locked firmly against the raging winds and plunging foam. Instead of Luna's silent, nocturnal peace, the gun decks were awash with the sounds of retching and hurried feet as ponies grabbed for sick-buckets or rushed to the head to vomit into something more substantial. Even seasoned seaponies could succumb to the wretchedness of seasickness when confined to the sightless torture of riding out a storm without any visual reference to the horizon, though in truth even those on watch or on the bridge could easily struggle when the horizon was blanked out by darkness and the ceaseless, driving rain.
The windshield wipers on the bridge, three big mechanical arms with rubber blades, tried desperately to keep the glass clear so the helmspony and the bridge crew could see what lay ahead, but it was a futile battle. The storm- hurricane, for that was what they were fighting- was raging with a fury unknown to those crewponies who were born and raised in Manehattan, Canterlot or anywhere else either far inland or at a northerly enough latitude to avoid the tropical terrors as they worked their way up from the equator. It was on par with any winter storm that might be whipped up out around Northwick and Yakyakistan, which could be ferocious in the extreme and match windspeeds with those from the tropics, for though it was the latest of late-season hurricanes, the waters around the equator were still turbulent and warm.
The plunging bow of the Chevaline could just about be glimpsed through the ambitiously-named clearview screens, two discs of glass placed upon the larger panes and rapidly spun by an electric motor to throw off water droplets, much as the swirling hurricane would throw off bursts of rain and occasional tornadoes at its extremities. Even they could barely keep up with the torrent being hurled against them, not just from the rain but also the spray as the great pointed prow of the battleship dove into each trough like a swimmer launching from the starting blocks at the Equestrian Games. Each time it seemed as though the ship must surely follow its own bow down into the depths, but each time it would rise up again and break free of the clawing waters, foam streaming from the gunwales and hawse-holes, to begin its ascent of the next prominence, where it would perch delicately before tipping forward once more. Sometimes a new wave would rush forward before the Chevaline had even cleared its bows from the last trough, and would wash over the entire foredeck and burst upon the bridge and the rest of the superstructure, inundating the forward turrets and half-drowning the poor lookouts despite their elevated positions.
"Sir, telephone message from the radio room! We are picking up a distress call!" one of the junior ensigns informed Champagne Crown, who sat in his chair on the bridge, enduring the evening watch, no less uncomfortable than to lie in bed ineffectually seeking sleep.
"Very good. Put it through," he ordered. The officer spoke into the handset of the internal telephony system, and the radio operators patched the transmission through to the bridge circuit so the captain could hear.
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the ENSS Conveyor. We have lost power and we are foundering! Requesting assistance!"
A frown creased the captain's handsome visage. The Conveyor was one of the fleet colliers, the vital coal transports that were carrying so much of the precious black substance. The battleships needed them, for though their own decks and store rooms were crammed with coal sacks to eke every possible mile from their boilers and turbines, it was still not enough. The colliers were vital, for they could transfer extra coal while at sea to restock the bunkers of the capital ships. If one was in trouble...
"Wake the Admiral," Crown ordered. "Summon him to the bridge if you please, Mister Kingfisher."
"Aye, Captain." The Midship-Pony in question hurried away down below, swaying with the motion of the ship as he held tightly to the companionway rail so as not to stumble or lose his footing. At least the deck plating was dry; on the weather deck it would be slick with water, while down below the gundecks were likely to be awash with vomit.
A short way astern and one deck down from the bridge lay the Admiral's cabin. Midship-Pony Kingfisher knocked, his knuckles rapping sharply upon the door. It was only then that he realised he did not quite know how to directly address the Admiral, his knowledge of etiquette deserting him at the most inopportune moment. Was he Admiral? Lord Admiral? My Lord? Your Highness? As a junior officer and usually only operating on the night watch on the rare occasion he was present on the bridge and not down below in the gunnery section, Kingfisher had never addressed the Admiral directly before.
"Sir?" Kingfisher called, settling for the most basic form of address, but probably the one least likely to get him into trouble for some perceived breach of etiquette, something Blueblood was known to pounce upon. "Sir? Begging your pardon, but Captain Crown requests your presence on the bridge..."
"Tell him to go and boil his head!" Blueblood replied from within the cabin.
"Ah...um, with all due respect, Admiral, I...believe the situation is quite urgent and requires your attention," Kingfisher ventured, receiving a growl in response. After a few moments, the door unlocked and the dishevelled figure of the Admiral appeared, his golden mane scraggly and out of place as he had been lying in his bed. His undershirt was no longer truly pristine white, for it was speckled in places with vomit. Kingfisher felt momentarily sorry for the Admiral, until he remembered that it was Blueblood's fault they were out here in the pitching waves in the first place. By all accounts, it had been his self-aggrandising and braggadocious speech which had persuaded the Princess to risk the Home Fleet on its long journey.
"What is it?" Blueblood demanded. "What is wrong? What could be more wrong than this confounded hurricane?"
"Radio message from the Conveyor, sir. They are foundering in heavy seas," Kingfisher explained. "Captain Crown requests your orders."
"Very well..." Blueblood grunted, pulling on his jacket and only bothering to fasten a few of the buttons, following Kingfisher to the bridge, swaying like a drunkard with every motion of the vessel. The Chevaline was making hard work of the waves, and so, it seemed, was the collier ship that was dragging along somewhere behind them in the darkness.
"Admiral," Crown clicked his heels and smartly saluted as Blueblood emerged onto the bridge, the squeak of the rubber wipers in the background as they continued their fruitless effort to keep the bridge windows clear of spray and rain. "We have received a message from the Conveyor. "
"Yes, yes, I know," Blueblood snapped, leaning heavily upon the edge of the map table. "Where is she?"
"Last confirmed position was some eight miles astern of us, but that was several hours ago sir," Crown reported. "This storm is playing havoc with our station-keeping. We can't even see the Canterlot, or the Yaktown, " he informed the Admiral. The two City-Class heavy cruisers which had been the flagship's close companions in formation were lost to sight, out among the heaving seas and whistling winds, no longer visible even if their station-keeping lights had been illuminated, which they were not, for Blueblood, still vigilant and wary, had ordered them extinguished across the fleet at night in case they helped to give aid to enemy torpedo boats or, worse, submarines.
"What does the captain of the Conveyor expect us to do about his dilemma?" Blueblood asked, the ship creaking beneath him as it rode a particularly large wave.
"He requests assistance, sir. A tow," Crown explained.
"A tow? In this sea?" Blueblood exploded. "Is he out of his mind? Tell him to fix his engines or whatever the issue is, and rejoin the rest of the fleet."
"Sir, the Conveyor reports that her engines have failed," Crown replied. "I do not think..."
"Mayday, mayday, mayday!" the radio, still relayed from the radio-room to the bridge, crackled again. "This is the ENSS Conveyor, we have lost power and are taking on water! Requesting immediate assistance!"
Blueblood frowned. If the fleet attempted to assist the collier ship, they would lose yet more precious time, but if they did not, they might well lose precious coal, and they could afford the loss of neither commodity. Sending ships to help would break up the fleet's formation even more than the storm already had, requiring more time to reform in the morning, or afternoon, once it had passed, and that could leave the capital ships exposed and alone. If Kirin forces were aware of their passage- and it seemed extremely unlikely they were not- then enemy ships or submarines could be waiting to pounce after the hurricane.
"Damn their eyes!" Blueblood snarled. "Do something about it, won't you, Captain? Sort them out. I'm going back to my cabin..." With that, the Admiral wandered off, leaving the bemused Champagne Crown to tend to the issue himself.
Out in the whirling, pounding sea, the Conveyor, a bulky, ugly vessel with fat smokestacks and a flattened, square superstructure, like the snout of a boxer broken many times in the ring, was struggling desperately against the water. With her engines out and the bilges overflowing, the collier was in trouble, flashing emergency signals with her searchlights in contravention of Admiral Blueblood's orders. The panicked crew were desperately trying to keep the pumps operating, but without the engines to provide a constant source of power, the old, creaky cargo ship was having great difficulty even achieving that. Emergency power was provided by several backup generators, but the water was seeping into the lower decks as wave after wave broke over her immobile bow, draining away through gaps in the old timbers of the deck, improperly caulked or simply worn with age, for the Conveyor had been in the service of the Home Fleet for decades. Truth be told, she was scarcely fit for the open water, having been initially built as a coastal transport before being purchased by the navy as a stop-gap measure until the construction of their own, purpose-built coaling vessels which carried the rest of the Home Fleet's vital fuel. Water was even soaking through and pooling in the great cargo holds that held the coal, soaking much of it through, to say nothing of the crew, who were as much water as pony, with rain, sea and now internal flooding to contend with.
At Champagne Crown's order, two ships were sent to the aid of the stricken collier. The ENS Revenge, a destroyer, and the ENS Ruby, a light cruiser, searched through the salt-spray for their target, a difficult task as the Conveyor did not know their true position. At long last, the lookouts, battered by the ferocious conditions on the bridge-wings of the Revenge, spotted the flashing signal lamps through the driving rain, and the destroyer set course, arriving alongside the Conveyor. A tow-rope was stretched and fired by line-gun from the stern of the Revenge to the bow of the collier, but the first poor soul from the Conveyor's crew who tried to retrieve it was swept overboard by a monstrous wash of seawater as a great breaker ran down the side of the destroyer's hull and then burst over the prow of the Conveyor, taking the line with it as well. It was hauled back in by the crew, but nothing could be done for the drowning sailor. Life-rings were hurled into the water by the collier's crew, but the unfortunate stallion, flailing wildly in the water, was almost immediately lost to sight in the undulating waves and blinding spray, drifting with the tide as the two ships tried to stick together. The Revenge's engines strained to keep position just ahead of the collier without smashing into her bow, for that would spell disaster for the destroyer, most likely mangling her props and leaving her as dead in the water as the Conveyor was.
The line gun was reloaded and the tow-rope fired onto the prow of the collier once more. This time it caught fast on one of the anchor chains, and two ponies were able to haul it in and tie it fast before scurrying back into the safety of the superstructure. The Revenge took the collier in tow, but the seas were greatly opposed to the two vessels remaining together, and the rope soon parted, snapping under tension. They tried again, and again they failed. The Revenge simply was not powerful enough to tow the heavily laden Conveyor. Her engines strained, props churning up the water like a school of feeding fish, but to no avail. A radio message was put out for the Ruby to come and aid them, but the cruiser replied that it could locate no sign of either vessel, despite constant searching.
Eventually, the seas overwhelmed the pumps of the aged collier, and its captain called for the ship to be abandoned. This entailed an even more perilous procedure, for taking to the lifeboats in such a savage and punishing sea was tantamount to suicide. That left them with one equally precarious option. The Revenge pulled alongside at a distance of as near to a hundred feet as the helmspony could reasonably estimate. The line gun was then loaded with another rope, this time not for towing, but for evacuation.
Carefully, but with haste, the crew of the Conveyor were carried across, one by one, in the breeches buoy attached to the rope, a kind of sling-harness worn like a pair of trousers, or breeches, hence the name. It was perilous, with the heavy seas threatening at any moment to swamp the tiny, dark figure of each pony as they were hauled across to the Revenge's deck and relative safety, hurried below with warm blankets and sharp tots of vodka or rum. The captain, as per nautical tradition, was the last to be hauled over, buffeted by the strong winds and lashing spray that swamped the overwhelmed deck of the collier. Within ten minutes of the last of the crew being taken off, the Conveyor was gone, slipping below the waves, taking her precious cargo with her.
Later that morning, when the sun finally rose above the hellish horizon and pitch darkness became a grave-grey overcast, the Chevaline meandered its way through the rough seas, still unable to accurately record her position; the radio was suffering heavy interference from the storm and its use was restricted to emergency communications anyway by Blueblood's orders, no coastline was in sight, and no old-fashioned star sightings had been possible during the night, the way the sailors in their wooden galleons had once navigated. Instead they had, essentially, been sailing blind through the night. Even their own instruments could not give an accurate reading of how far they had travelled or where they were; the ships' speed readouts had fluctuated wildly, almost constantly changing as she pitched up and down, riding the peaks and ploughing through the troughs, unable to maintain a constant rate of knots and rendering it difficult, if not impossible, to take readings of speed and time from the chronometer to work out how many nautical miles they had covered. Their heading had likewise shifted, despite the best efforts of the helmspony, who had received a fine workout to his arm muscles trying to keep the mighty battleship on course.
Finally, after hours of torture, a night of misery for those below and on duty, there was some tiny hint of a change in the weather. Above them, ahead, was a little sliver of blue sky, a pinprick in the shroud of heaven. No sooner had it come than it was gone, scudding away, obscured once more by the fringes of the storm, but it signalled a change. Half an hour later, there was more blue sky; the clouds were whiter, not as grey and laden with rain. The winds began to drop. If they were indeed still on course, and had vaguely covered anything like the distance predicted, they should be coming to the other side of the outer bands of the storm, having skirted the eyewall and stayed ahead of the absolute worst of the conditions. That had been Blueblood's plan- to push through the outer edges of the storm rather than wait for it to pass completely, saving them time and fuel. Unlike many things so far on the voyage, it had actually worked.
Up to a point, at least.
