Author’s Note (Story and Patreon Updates):
158 is now out for all Tier 2 Patrons and higher! Tier 2 Patrons and higher will be able to read one chapter ahead!
Manifest Fantasy Chapter 1 will be released on October 3, exclusively on RoyalRoad. Manifest Fantasy chapters will be uploaded concurrently alongside Summoning America chapters (I will be working on both at the same time). This double upload is the last one for the foreseeable future.
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/drdoritosmd
——
December 25, 1640
U.S. Navy Seventh Fleet
USS Gerald R. Ford
Admiral William Hawthorne stepped onto the bridge, momentarily pausing to absorb the serene seascape that stretched to the horizon. The sky transitioned from fading oranges to brightening blues, signaling the onset of morning. Even the ocean, a mirror for the sky’s tranquil hues, concealed the reality of the impending conflict. A quiet breath escaped him, as though inhaling the calm himself, before he turned back to the world of data and decisions that awaited him.
Inside the bridge, sailors moved purposefully between their stations, the soft chatter of subdued but focused conversations filling the air. Displays blinked with real-time data, and the machinery behind the scenes hummed with quiet efficiency. Amidst it all, a miniature Christmas tree nestled discreetly near the navigation station, and some crew members wore Santa hats, a testament to the day’s significance.
Hawthorne felt a tinge of irritation at the Gra Valkans for robbing him and his crew of a cherished holiday. As his eyes briefly met those of Lieutenant Carver, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Years of service had imparted the wisdom to make even a battle on Christmas Day a matter of personal score-settling.
As he surveyed the room, he saw other narratives unfold. Commander Stevens, ever the focused bachelor, seemed unfazed by the holiday, his eyes locked onto the mission at hand. Yet the weight of conducting war on a day meant for peace imprinted itself on each face, etching varying degrees of emotion, resolve, and expectation.
The incongruity was not lost on Hawthorne as he tore his gaze away from the ocean’s deceptive calm. He had drawn enough from its quietude; now, his full attention to the storm that was inevitably gathering. He gave one last lingering glance at the tranquil sea before him, then turned on his heel.
Descending from the bridge, Hawthorne’s footsteps grew more purposeful with each step. As the hatch to the CIC opened, a sailor immediately called out, “Admiral on deck!”
The room came to attention, eyes briefly leaving the state-of-the-art screens and conversations halting.
“As you were,” Hawthorne commanded, allowing the room to return to its orchestrated chaos.
“Admiral, the Hawkeye’s latest data has been integrated into the CIC’s feed,” Captain Roberts announced.
“Excellent. Let’s update the tactical picture.” Hawthorne moved toward the large screen displaying a complex overlay of the Cartalpas Bay region.
An operations specialist stepped forward. “Sir, the bulk of the Gra Valkan force is retreating, with a minor force of battleship divisions advancing into the bay. Our sonobuoys, deployed by P-8S, have provided us a detailed underwater acoustic picture. We’ve identified two battleship divisions, totaling four battleships, supported by a mix of eight cruisers and twelve destroyers. Additionally, sonar confirms the presence of ten submarines, likely organized into two squadrons.”
Hawthorne studied the screen, the layers of information morphing into a battlefield mosaic in his mind. The Gra Valkans, outmatched and outgunned, had decided to leave a sacrificial force to cover their main fleet’s retreat.
“Any indication they’re trying to mask their approach or utilize deception tactics?” he asked.
The operations specialist shook his head. “Sir, unless they’ve incorporated invisibility magic already, there’s little they could do to evade our surveillance. They’re practically sitting ducks.”
The room held a collective, silent acknowledgment of the Gra Valkans’ vulnerability. In another era, the Gra Valkans might have posed a formidable threat, but now they were outclassed in every conceivable way. It was a realization that steeled the crew’s resolved, tinged by a grim acceptance of the efficiency with which they would execute their orders.
Hawthorne switched the display to a planning view, sketching the outlines of his attack strategy for his senior officers to see. “Our objective is to help the Mirishials secure their port and to eliminate all Gra Valkan surface elements as soon as possible. Since there aren’t any hostile aircraft, we’ll use AGM-84 Harpoons for this operation.”
“Our deployment,” he continued, eyeing the details on the screen, “will be as follows: twelve Super Hornets on a low-altitude, high-speed ingress with 4 Harpoons each to deal with the hostile fleet. With this, we can have four missiles per battleship, two per cruiser, one per destroyer, and a couple to spare. We’ll have another wave prepared with Harpoons in case this force is insufficient.”
“Do we configure them for extended range with auxiliary fuel tanks?” queried the Operations Officer, Commander Stevens.
“Negative on drop tanks,” Hawthorne responded. “I want maximum ordnance. We’re close enough for a quick strike and return. We’ll stagger the sorties, sending the second wave as the first returns.”
The CIC communications officer relayed the orders to the flight deck, receiving confirmation from the flight deck officer.
“Excellent. And let’s get a pair of Growlers ready for electronic warfare support. Coordinate with DESRON 15; I want ASROCs prepped and aimed at those subs,” Hawthorne ordered.
The CIC communications officer responded, “Aye, Admiral. Growlers for EW support and ASROCs are being coordinated with DESRON 15. Stand by for readiness status.”
Admiral Hawthorne took a moment to consider the situation. While the upcoming engagement seemed like a foregone conclusion, he knew better than to underestimate an adversary, even one as outmatched as the Gra Valkans. With this thought, he returned to the bridge and waited patiently for his preparations to be carried out..
After a moment, Commander Stevens stepped forward. “Admiral, flight deck reports that twelve Super Hornets are in readiness for the strike mission. Each Hornet is fitted with four AGM-84 Harpoons. Growlers are ready and F-35s are also prepared for Combat Air Patrol.
“Excellent,” Hawthorne replied, nodding. “And what about DESRON 15?”
“ASROCs are loaded and ready on the destroyers, sir. They report full readiness for anti-submarine warfare,” Stevens confirmed.
“Good. Commence launch sequence. Once the Hornets are airborne, order the destroyers to launch their ASROCs.”
“Commencing launch sequence, aye” Stevens acknowledged, swiftly relaying the orders. Seconds ticked by, then the entire bridge vibrated subtly as the engines of the Super Hornets roared to life.
As the first of the Super Hornets catapulted off the deck, Hawthorne noticed the low hum of the Electromagnet Aircraft Launch System – distinctly quieter and smoother than the old steam catapults he had grown accustomed to on the Reagan. The EMALS generated a consistent magnetic field, launching the aircraft with a precision that felt almost surgical.
The nostalgia of the Reagan’s hissing and clanking was replaced by an appreciation for the Ford’s advanced capabilities. The aircraft shot off the deck smoothly, their acceleration linear and finely tuned, unlike the more abrupt and jolting launches of the past.
Following the Super Hornets, the sleeker F-35s took to the sky, their airframes disappearing quickly against the canvas of the ocean.
“Sir, Hornets are en route to their target coordinates. F-35s are in CAP formation,” reported the Tactical Action Officer, eyes glued to her display as she tracked the aircraft.
“Good. Order the destroyers to launch their ASROCs,” Hawthorne commanded, shifting his focus from the airborne units to the maritime theater.
“ASROCs away, Admiral,” the TAO announced a few seconds later. Graphical indicators blinked into existence on Hawthorne’s digital war table, each one representing a launched ASROC missile homing in on its underwater target.
Admiral Hawthorne allowed himself to lean back in his chair, his eyes still glued to the digital representation of the theater.
––
Commander Harrison Richthofen, aptly nicknamed the “Silver Baron” by his fellow pilots, felt the F-35’s engines thrum beneath him as he surveyed the displays in his cockpit. Radio chatter from the Super Hornets filled his ears, they were the strike element, armed with Harpoons to neutralize the Gra Valkan threat.
Casual banter filled the radio waves, “Blaze, this is Talisman. If I have to hear the Valkies’ propaganda one more time, I might just reroute my missiles.”
Blaze responded, “Ha! As if they think they can psych us out with their bullshit. Just makes me wanna knock ‘em out faster.”
“Count here. Remember the last Valkie that tried taunting us over the radio? Poor guy could barely get his words out before choking on seawater. Never expected a dude in a tiny recon fleet to have that much balls.”
“Seems to be a running gig with these guys. Bruh they got crazy inflated egos for no reason.”
“Plus the lucky guy was talking to Ghost Eye. Our AWACS has a way of sending those Valkies on a one-way trip to Davy Jones’ locker.”
“Ay, ay, guys, this is Pixy. Heard some intel about Cartalpas. Something about elves, mead, and a new karaoke place?”
A chorus of excited ‘woahs’ and hoots clogged the channel before Blaze responded, “Pixy, now you’ve piqued my interest. Forget the Valkies, we’ve got higher priorities!”
“SkyEye reporting. We’ve gotta save Cartalpas first. Least kills buy the first round?”
“Count me in, SkyEye. But Talisman’s got to sing karaoke, that’s the deal.”
“Deal, but only if Blaze joins. “I’m not massacring Highway to the Danger Zone alone.”
“Full Band here, I’ve got dibs on Paint It Black. Our op’s right on Christmas, and I’m itching to go full Grinch on the Valkies.”
“Poor Valkies won’t even know what hit ‘em. Imagine missing out on Christmas to get blown up by us. Wait, do they even have Christmas?”
“As Mobius, the voice of reason here, may I remind you all we’re still in a combat zone?” But for the record, I’m taking Sweet Victory for karaoke night.”
With the moment of levity passing, Richthofen switched back into mission mode.
“Alright gentlemen, as much as I’d love to keep dreaming about Cartalpas and elves, let’s switch to Tac 3 and get this show on the road,” Richthofen instructed, “We can book our karaoke slots later.”
“Verstanden, Herr Baron, Strider 1-2 switching to Tac 3”, Talisman chimed in with a mock German accent.
Blaze also jumped in, “Roger that, Goliath. Strider 1-1 moving to Tac 3. Fenced in, master arm is on.”
“Goliath, this is CIC, confirm you are fenced in and provide munitions status,” came the voice from the carrier’s Combat Information Center, adding another layer of procedural checks.
“Goliath, munitions green. All systems are nominal. Master arm is on,” Richthofen relayed.
“Copy, Goliath. Time-On-Target synchronization is active. Align your run with the rest of the strike package. You’re TOT minus five minutes,” the CIC officer instructed.
“Understood, CIC. TOT minus five,” Richthofen confirmed, glancing at the countdown clock.
“Strider flight, this is Phantom Lead, Growlers are in position and beginning electronic attack,” came the voice of the Growler’s lead pilot. The soft electronic hum in Richthofen’s cockpit briefly warbled, a subtle sign the electronic warfare measures were active.
“Copy, Phantom Lead. Appreciate the support,” he acknowledged.
“Bandog, this is Goliath, sitrep,” he then keyed his mic to request a situation report from the E-2 Hawkeye providing airborne early warning.
“Bandog to Goliath, picture is clean. No bogeys in your operational area,” the voice of the Hawkeye’s airborne tactical officer came through the comms.
“Acknowledged, Bandog,” he responded, slight disappointment washing over him. He had experience against wyverns but was itching to test his fighter on Gra Valkan monoplanes.
“Strider flight, this is Goliath. We’re TOT minus three minutes. Prepare for coordinated launch,” he instructed the Super Hornets, emphasizing the importance of launching their Harpoons in a synchronized manner.
“Strider Flight copies, TOT minus three,” came the collective acknowledgment from the Super Hornet pilots.
Richthofen’s eyes flicked back and forth between his displays, double-checking waypoints, altitudes, and weapons settings. Everything looked good. “Phantom Lead, Goliath. Confirm jamming measures will be sustained throughout our TOT window.”
“Affirmative, Goliath. We’ve got you covered.”
Richthofen glanced at the clock once more: TOT minus one minute and ticking down. He took a moment to pull up the real-time feed from the Hornets’ targeting pods on his left display. Through the magic of data-linking, he could see the Gra Valkan fleet already beginning to engage the battered EDI forces. He double-checked the Hornets’ target designations; they were perfect.
“Strider flight, Goliath. You’re clear to engage. Light ‘em up.”
“Strider 1-1, Bruiser,” was the terse reply before a pause, and then, “Harpoons away.”
Author’s Note (Story and Patreon Updates):
158 is now out for all Tier 2 Patrons and higher! Tier 2 Patrons and higher will be able to read one chapter ahead!
Manifest Fantasy Chapter 1 will be released on October 3, exclusively on RoyalRoad. Manifest Fantasy chapters will be uploaded concurrently alongside Summoning America chapters (I will be working on both at the same time). This double upload is the last one for the foreseeable future.
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/drdoritosmd
——
December 25, 1640
U.S. Navy Seventh Fleet
USS Gerald R. Ford
Admiral William Hawthorne stepped onto the bridge, momentarily pausing to absorb the serene seascape that stretched to the horizon. The sky transitioned from fading oranges to brightening blues, signaling the onset of morning. Even the ocean, a mirror for the sky’s tranquil hues, concealed the reality of the impending conflict. A quiet breath escaped him, as though inhaling the calm himself, before he turned back to the world of data and decisions that awaited him.
Inside the bridge, sailors moved purposefully between their stations, the soft chatter of subdued but focused conversations filling the air. Displays blinked with real-time data, and the machinery behind the scenes hummed with quiet efficiency. Amidst it all, a miniature Christmas tree nestled discreetly near the navigation station, and some crew members wore Santa hats, a testament to the day’s significance.
Hawthorne felt a tinge of irritation at the Gra Valkans for robbing him and his crew of a cherished holiday. As his eyes briefly met those of Lieutenant Carver, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Years of service had imparted the wisdom to make even a battle on Christmas Day a matter of personal score-settling.
As he surveyed the room, he saw other narratives unfold. Commander Stevens, ever the focused bachelor, seemed unfazed by the holiday, his eyes locked onto the mission at hand. Yet the weight of conducting war on a day meant for peace imprinted itself on each face, etching varying degrees of emotion, resolve, and expectation.
The incongruity was not lost on Hawthorne as he tore his gaze away from the ocean’s deceptive calm. He had drawn enough from its quietude; now, his full attention to the storm that was inevitably gathering. He gave one last lingering glance at the tranquil sea before him, then turned on his heel.
Descending from the bridge, Hawthorne’s footsteps grew more purposeful with each step. As the hatch to the CIC opened, a sailor immediately called out, “Admiral on deck!”
The room came to attention, eyes briefly leaving the state-of-the-art screens and conversations halting.
“As you were,” Hawthorne commanded, allowing the room to return to its orchestrated chaos.
“Admiral, the Hawkeye’s latest data has been integrated into the CIC’s feed,” Captain Roberts announced.
“Excellent. Let’s update the tactical picture.” Hawthorne moved toward the large screen displaying a complex overlay of the Cartalpas Bay region.
An operations specialist stepped forward. “Sir, the bulk of the Gra Valkan force is retreating, with a minor force of battleship divisions advancing into the bay. Our sonobuoys, deployed by P-8S, have provided us a detailed underwater acoustic picture. We’ve identified two battleship divisions, totaling four battleships, supported by a mix of eight cruisers and twelve destroyers. Additionally, sonar confirms the presence of ten submarines, likely organized into two squadrons.”
Hawthorne studied the screen, the layers of information morphing into a battlefield mosaic in his mind. The Gra Valkans, outmatched and outgunned, had decided to leave a sacrificial force to cover their main fleet’s retreat.
“Any indication they’re trying to mask their approach or utilize deception tactics?” he asked.
The operations specialist shook his head. “Sir, unless they’ve incorporated invisibility magic already, there’s little they could do to evade our surveillance. They’re practically sitting ducks.”
The room held a collective, silent acknowledgment of the Gra Valkans’ vulnerability. In another era, the Gra Valkans might have posed a formidable threat, but now they were outclassed in every conceivable way. It was a realization that steeled the crew’s resolved, tinged by a grim acceptance of the efficiency with which they would execute their orders.
Hawthorne switched the display to a planning view, sketching the outlines of his attack strategy for his senior officers to see. “Our objective is to help the Mirishials secure their port and to eliminate all Gra Valkan surface elements as soon as possible. Since there aren’t any hostile aircraft, we’ll use AGM-84 Harpoons for this operation.”
“Our deployment,” he continued, eyeing the details on the screen, “will be as follows: twelve Super Hornets on a low-altitude, high-speed ingress with 4 Harpoons each to deal with the hostile fleet. With this, we can have four missiles per battleship, two per cruiser, one per destroyer, and a couple to spare. We’ll have another wave prepared with Harpoons in case this force is insufficient.”
“Do we configure them for extended range with auxiliary fuel tanks?” queried the Operations Officer, Commander Stevens.
“Negative on drop tanks,” Hawthorne responded. “I want maximum ordnance. We’re close enough for a quick strike and return. We’ll stagger the sorties, sending the second wave as the first returns.”
The CIC communications officer relayed the orders to the flight deck, receiving confirmation from the flight deck officer.
“Excellent. And let’s get a pair of Growlers ready for electronic warfare support. Coordinate with DESRON 15; I want ASROCs prepped and aimed at those subs,” Hawthorne ordered.
The CIC communications officer responded, “Aye, Admiral. Growlers for EW support and ASROCs are being coordinated with DESRON 15. Stand by for readiness status.”
Admiral Hawthorne took a moment to consider the situation. While the upcoming engagement seemed like a foregone conclusion, he knew better than to underestimate an adversary, even one as outmatched as the Gra Valkans. With this thought, he returned to the bridge and waited patiently for his preparations to be carried out..
After a moment, Commander Stevens stepped forward. “Admiral, flight deck reports that twelve Super Hornets are in readiness for the strike mission. Each Hornet is fitted with four AGM-84 Harpoons. Growlers are ready and F-35s are also prepared for Combat Air Patrol.
“Excellent,” Hawthorne replied, nodding. “And what about DESRON 15?”
“ASROCs are loaded and ready on the destroyers, sir. They report full readiness for anti-submarine warfare,” Stevens confirmed.
“Good. Commence launch sequence. Once the Hornets are airborne, order the destroyers to launch their ASROCs.”
“Commencing launch sequence, aye” Stevens acknowledged, swiftly relaying the orders. Seconds ticked by, then the entire bridge vibrated subtly as the engines of the Super Hornets roared to life.
As the first of the Super Hornets catapulted off the deck, Hawthorne noticed the low hum of the Electromagnet Aircraft Launch System – distinctly quieter and smoother than the old steam catapults he had grown accustomed to on the Reagan. The EMALS generated a consistent magnetic field, launching the aircraft with a precision that felt almost surgical.
The nostalgia of the Reagan’s hissing and clanking was replaced by an appreciation for the Ford’s advanced capabilities. The aircraft shot off the deck smoothly, their acceleration linear and finely tuned, unlike the more abrupt and jolting launches of the past.
Following the Super Hornets, the sleeker F-35s took to the sky, their airframes disappearing quickly against the canvas of the ocean.
“Sir, Hornets are en route to their target coordinates. F-35s are in CAP formation,” reported the Tactical Action Officer, eyes glued to her display as she tracked the aircraft.
“Good. Order the destroyers to launch their ASROCs,” Hawthorne commanded, shifting his focus from the airborne units to the maritime theater.
“ASROCs away, Admiral,” the TAO announced a few seconds later. Graphical indicators blinked into existence on Hawthorne’s digital war table, each one representing a launched ASROC missile homing in on its underwater target.
Admiral Hawthorne allowed himself to lean back in his chair, his eyes still glued to the digital representation of the theater.
––
Commander Harrison Richthofen, aptly nicknamed the “Silver Baron” by his fellow pilots, felt the F-35’s engines thrum beneath him as he surveyed the displays in his cockpit. Radio chatter from the Super Hornets filled his ears, they were the strike element, armed with Harpoons to neutralize the Gra Valkan threat.
Casual banter filled the radio waves, “Blaze, this is Talisman. If I have to hear the Valkies’ propaganda one more time, I might just reroute my missiles.”
Blaze responded, “Ha! As if they think they can psych us out with their bullshit. Just makes me wanna knock ‘em out faster.”
“Count here. Remember the last Valkie that tried taunting us over the radio? Poor guy could barely get his words out before choking on seawater. Never expected a dude in a tiny recon fleet to have that much balls.”
“Seems to be a running gig with these guys. Bruh they got crazy inflated egos for no reason.”
“Plus the lucky guy was talking to Ghost Eye. Our AWACS has a way of sending those Valkies on a one-way trip to Davy Jones’ locker.”
“Ay, ay, guys, this is Pixy. Heard some intel about Cartalpas. Something about elves, mead, and a new karaoke place?”
A chorus of excited ‘woahs’ and hoots clogged the channel before Blaze responded, “Pixy, now you’ve piqued my interest. Forget the Valkies, we’ve got higher priorities!”
“SkyEye reporting. We’ve gotta save Cartalpas first. Least kills buy the first round?”
“Count me in, SkyEye. But Talisman’s got to sing karaoke, that’s the deal.”
“Deal, but only if Blaze joins. “I’m not massacring Highway to the Danger Zone alone.”
“Full Band here, I’ve got dibs on Paint It Black. Our op’s right on Christmas, and I’m itching to go full Grinch on the Valkies.”
“Poor Valkies won’t even know what hit ‘em. Imagine missing out on Christmas to get blown up by us. Wait, do they even have Christmas?”
“As Mobius, the voice of reason here, may I remind you all we’re still in a combat zone?” But for the record, I’m taking Sweet Victory for karaoke night.”
With the moment of levity passing, Richthofen switched back into mission mode.
“Alright gentlemen, as much as I’d love to keep dreaming about Cartalpas and elves, let’s switch to Tac 3 and get this show on the road,” Richthofen instructed, “We can book our karaoke slots later.”
“Verstanden, Herr Baron, Strider 1-2 switching to Tac 3”, Talisman chimed in with a mock German accent.
Blaze also jumped in, “Roger that, Goliath. Strider 1-1 moving to Tac 3. Fenced in, master arm is on.”
“Goliath, this is CIC, confirm you are fenced in and provide munitions status,” came the voice from the carrier’s Combat Information Center, adding another layer of procedural checks.
“Goliath, munitions green. All systems are nominal. Master arm is on,” Richthofen relayed.
“Copy, Goliath. Time-On-Target synchronization is active. Align your run with the rest of the strike package. You’re TOT minus five minutes,” the CIC officer instructed.
“Understood, CIC. TOT minus five,” Richthofen confirmed, glancing at the countdown clock.
“Strider flight, this is Phantom Lead, Growlers are in position and beginning electronic attack,” came the voice of the Growler’s lead pilot. The soft electronic hum in Richthofen’s cockpit briefly warbled, a subtle sign the electronic warfare measures were active.
“Copy, Phantom Lead. Appreciate the support,” he acknowledged.
“Bandog, this is Goliath, sitrep,” he then keyed his mic to request a situation report from the E-2 Hawkeye providing airborne early warning.
“Bandog to Goliath, picture is clean. No bogeys in your operational area,” the voice of the Hawkeye’s airborne tactical officer came through the comms.
“Acknowledged, Bandog,” he responded, slight disappointment washing over him. He had experience against wyverns but was itching to test his fighter on Gra Valkan monoplanes.
“Strider flight, this is Goliath. We’re TOT minus three minutes. Prepare for coordinated launch,” he instructed the Super Hornets, emphasizing the importance of launching their Harpoons in a synchronized manner.
“Strider Flight copies, TOT minus three,” came the collective acknowledgment from the Super Hornet pilots.
Richthofen’s eyes flicked back and forth between his displays, double-checking waypoints, altitudes, and weapons settings. Everything looked good. “Phantom Lead, Goliath. Confirm jamming measures will be sustained throughout our TOT window.”
“Affirmative, Goliath. We’ve got you covered.”
Richthofen glanced at the clock once more: TOT minus one minute and ticking down. He took a moment to pull up the real-time feed from the Hornets’ targeting pods on his left display. Through the magic of data-linking, he could see the Gra Valkan fleet already beginning to engage the battered EDI forces. He double-checked the Hornets’ target designations; they were perfect.
“Strider flight, Goliath. You’re clear to engage. Light ‘em up.”
“Strider 1-1, Bruiser,” was the terse reply before a pause, and then, “Harpoons away.”
