"I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast; for I intend to go into harm's way,"

John Paul Jones

In the early days of the war, the world was reluctant to believe the threat of the Abyssals was real. Rather, they preferred to claim it was nothing more than the imaginative tales of sailors who had spent too many weeks at sea. It would take an event of some magnitude to prove the threat to the world was real and pressing.

A History of the Abyssal Wars

CAPT John C. Brightlinger, USN(ret.)

Naval Institute Press, 2035

USS Evans

Philippine Sea, Near Japan

21 June 2020

1702hrs

Lieutenant Matthew C. Dover, USN, stared up at the situation monitor, trying to make sense of what he saw. Somewhere in the display of symbols and numbers there was an explanation as to what was happening, but he just couldn't see it. All he knew was that there was something out there. Even with the dozens of high tech sensors and instruments at his disposal, he couldn't be told anything more than that there was something.

It had started about an hour ago with a sonar blip that should have been thrown out with the noise. But it comes back a few minutes later, and then a few minutes after that. Now there were half a dozen symbols on the monitor where it had appeared for a few seconds, and then disappeared. Something about this whole situation just set Dover on edge, and he simply couldn't figure out what. He was the Evans' Tactical Action Officer, the captain expected him to know everything about what was going on near the ship, but he had no idea what this was. That blatant breach in duty was more than a little upsetting.

He leaned in his seat and grabbed his coffee mug off the desk. Dover was a tall and well built, but lithe rather than muscular. He had fair skin, even features, and wore his light brown hair in a crew cut. He wore the same blue coveralls as the rest of the crew members in the Combat Information Center, but he also wore the ring of the US Naval Academy and a simple, gold wedding band. Raising his voice, he asked, "I don't suppose you know what this phantom is, Ski?"

"Well sir," replied Sonar Technician 2nd Class Steven Wazinski. He pulled his headset off and turned to look at Dover, "It's faint, moving slowly, and the only reason I haven't thrown it out as noise is because the lieutenant is paranoid." Wazinski, Ski to his friends, was a thin, reedy man who wore a pair of thick eyeglasses on the end of his nose. The picture of a stereotypical computer geek.

"The moment I stop being paranoid is the moment I take off this uniform, Ski," Dover shot back, "Try again."

Wazinski sighed, then rubbed his eyes tiredly, "I've been going over the tapes for the last twenty minutes, sir, and the best I can give you is that it sort of sounds like machinery noises. But it also isn't firm enough for me to classify."

"But there could be something?" Dover asked, "A submarine perhaps?"

"If it were a sub sir, it would be a rather unintelligent sub," Wazinski replied, "With the seas up this high, all a sub would have to do to hide from us, would be to go deep. We would never hear them in all this crap the storm is kicking up. Dover nodded in acceptance of that. A pop up storm had swept over the Evans and her task group about an hour ago, and it was only getting worse with every passing minute. Already the deck had taken on a fifteen degree roll, and Dover had almost lost his coffee several times. The strange thing was, the Evans had passed the outer edges of the storm at about the same time that the phantom had appeared. Something about that tickled the back of Dover's mind, but he just couldn't figure out what.

"Well, keep at it, ski," Dover replied with a sigh.

"Aye sir," Wazinski said, then pulled his headset back over his ears. Dover sighed, then rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to work some feeling back into his fingers.

It must have been below sixty degrees in the CIC today, because he was because he was beginning to lose feeling in his extremities. He muttered angrily, "The Navy can build a multi-billion dollar warship with all the bells and whistles but yet they can't make a thermostat that can do more than blazing hot or freezing cold." He shouldn't have said it, and he knew it. This whole situation was just rubbing him the wrong way.

Operation's Specialist 3rd Class Sally Gregg jumped on the remark before Dover could say anything else, "But sir, a military contractor designed and built that thermostat to do a specific job, and do that job in any condition at any time. They just that they made sure that its job was to give everyone in the CIC hypothermia." Dover let out a chuckle, he had to give Greg that one. Greg was a petite woman who was always one crack away from captain's mast. She joked when she was bored, when she was tense, and sometimes just for fun. Dover tolerated it for the most part, but he was quick to step in whenever she went too far.

"So, OS3, since you have weighed your opinion on the matter, give me a sitrep," Dover ordered. Greg stood up from her chair and walked over to the situation monitor, careful not to lose her footing against the rolling deck.

Using her finger to point, she began, "We are here, the other two DDGs and the one cruiser in our group are here and here. We have one civilian freighter, the MV Ocean Flyer, here," she pointed to each of the symbols marking the ships on the monitor, "Ski's phantom is here following this course, if the contact is to be believed."

"Thank you, Greg," Dover replied, "Any recommendations?"

"That if this phantom is actually out there, it's probably some cabin cruiser that got lost in the storm. Radar has no track on it, so it's probably small, and it's moving too slowly for anything else. Give the bridge a warning, and leave it alone, sir."

"Thank you OS3," Dover said, then took another healthy swallow from his coffee.

"Wait, you think this has something to do with the disappearances, don't you?" Gregg asked, causing Dover to almost drop his coffee. There had been reports of ships vanishing without a trace making the rounds through the surface community for months now. So far it had been civilian freighters, and there had been no witnesses found. For all intents and purposes, those ships had simply fallen off the face of the earth. The Navy denied it, of course, but Dover had his own opinions on the matter.

"Why would you think that?" Dover asked, trying to regain his composure.

"Oh come on," Greg said, rolling her eyes, "Heavy storm in the middle of nowhere, phantom contact stalking a ship. If this isn't the plot of a crappy horror flick than I'll eat my cover."

"The disappearances are just coincidences," Dover replied.

"That's what they want you to think, sir," Greg replied, "But thirty or so ships vanishing without a trace in the space of a month? That sounds like more than a coincidence to me." Dover shook his head, trying to figure out where this conversation was going.

Wazinski beat him to it though, "And I'm sure our phantom is an alien space monster about to gobble us up?"

"I'm not discounting that theory," Greg said, crossing her arms over her chest, "Then again, for all we know it's simply two big whales making a small whale, or some sort of magma flow," she continued, her grin growing even larger, "Or maybe it's a phantom Russian submarine. Ski, do you hear a bunch of sailors singing the Soviet anthem off key?"

"Fuck you too, Greg," Ski replied, then threw a pen in Greg's direction.

She ducked to avoid it, then said, "See, he does. I bet they're really off key then." Her smirk was splitting her face at this point. Dover simply shook his head, trying to hide the smirk that had formed on his lips.

He had to cough to get their attention, "Lock it up you two. Remember you're still on watch." Friendly banter was one thing, but when it interrupted discipline that there were problems.

"Aye sir," Greg replied with a sigh and a pout. She walked back over to her station and flopped down into her seat. Her suggestion stuck in Dover's head for some reason. Maybe it was some sort of Russian sub, or a Chinese sub.

He was thinking about phantom submarines and space aliens when the information system technician at the communications station, announced, "Sir, comms shack is passing down something. I think you'll want to hear this."

"What is it?" Dover asked, standing up.

"Sir, that freighter, it's broadcasting on channel 16." Everyone in the room suddenly went silent. Channel 16 was the international maritime distress channel. Transmitting on that channel was the maritime equivalent of an airplane saying that one of its engines had just exploded.

Dover snapped his fingers to get everyone's attention, then began to give rapid fire orders, "Get back to commo, try to get more information. Someone pull the registry information on the MV Ocean Flyer. I want to know its type, tonnage, nationality, all that, and then pass over the situation over the net to the other ships. Make sure that everyone in the task group acknowledges the situation." There was a sudden frenzy of activity as the crew in the CIC went to work. Dover picked up his own headset, and flipped the switch to engage the intercom to the bridge.

While he waited for the OOD to pick up, he took a look up at the situation monitor. The Ocean Flyer was stuck right in the worst part of the storm. He shuddered a bit, to have an emergency in this type of weather, that crew must be going through hell right now. Finally, someone on the bridge picked up the intercom. "Bridge," it was the voice of Lieutenant Commander Sarah Wright, the Evans' XO.

"Bridge, CIC, ma'am we just got a channel 16 message from a civilian freighter about two miles to our north," Dover replied.

"What's the problem?" Wright asked. Dover looked down at the transcript print out that the IT had handed him.

"They've lost engine power and are flooding. Ma'am, in these seas…" Dover began to say but was cut off.

"I understand lieutenant. Stand by for further orders, Bridge out." Dover heard a click as Wright hung up the handset.

Dover looked over at the comms station, "Keep me up to date, anything that comes over the wire." A moment later, he felt the ship begin to lean as it started to turn. They were moving to aid the Flyer, he just hoped they could get there in time.

"Aye, sir," replied the IT a moment later. Dover entered a few commands on his computer, and flashed up a feed from the gun director on top of the bridge. He swept the camera around, looking for anything, but all he could see was rain and clouds. Hell, he could barely see the destroyer two hundred yards in front of the Evans. "Damn this storm is getting heavy," he swore to himself.

"Don't like a good storm, lieutenant?" Dover looked up just in time to see Master Chief Rowin Boggs walk into the room. Boggs was short, barrel chested, and crew cut. He was the highest ranking enlisted man on the ship, the command master chief, and not someone you wanted to cross.

"I like storms just fine, Master Chief," Dover replied, "It's just when we try to rescue people in the middle of one."

"What's the story on that?" Boggs asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Apparently they lost power. No clue how," Dove replied, then he raised his voice so the crew could hear him clearly, "But I'm still waiting on a full report."

"Got it right here, el-tee," Greg said. She walked over and passed a sheet of paper to Dover. "Short version, MV Ocean Flyer is a dry bulk freighter. Owned by a multinational concern, but flagged in Japan."

"So a standard rescue job," Boggs said, "Storm will make things lively, but no big deal. Any chance to show Coasties that we can do rescue too."

"Sir, update on the phantom," Wazinski called, causing Dover to look up in surprise, "Re-established the contact about five miles away, bearing 020. It's beginning to firm up, definitely machinery noises."

"Put it up on the board," Dover said, then stood up.

"What's this?" Boggs asked, confusion evident on his voice.

"Phantom contact we established about an hour ago," Dover explained. He walked over to the situation monitor and began to trace the line the phantom made. When he saw where it ended, he swore, "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Boggs snapped.

Dover ignored the Master Chief, instead ordering, "IT, tell comms to try to raise this phantom."

After the IT replied in the affirmative, Boggs repeated, "Lieutenant, what is the problem?"

"This phantom," Dover explained, "We've been picking it up sporadically for the last hour. Every time Ski made contact he marked the position. At its current course, the line intersects here." Dover raised his hand to trace the course line created by the phantom, ending with his finger pointing to the symbol that marked the Ocean Flyer.

"You're thinking disappearances?" Boggs asked.

"I'm thinking I don't know yet, but this whole situation just seems wrong," Dover replied with a sigh, then asked, "Any replies to hail?"

"No sir, no replies on any channel," the IT replied. Dover slammed his fist into the desk in frustration.

He shook his head, then commented, "We should be in visual range of the Flyer, I'll try to get them on the monitor." He went to work at his station, sending commands to the camera mounted in the mast. The monitor showing the camera feed shifted as Dover panned the camera around.

"You weren't kidding, it is soup out there," Boggs said with a low whistle. The camera feed was almost completely obscured by haze and rain. A moment later the camera centered on a ship. Dover could make out details. It was a run of the mill freighter, long and squat. They could see it was in trouble. The waves were throwing it around so violently, that water occasionally washed over the deck.

"Looks like we got here just in time," Dover said. He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, trying to figure out what was wrong with the freighter, but all he saw was a ship stranded in a storm.

"Sir, the phantom just dropped off again," Wazinski said with a sigh.

"You lost it?" Dover asked, turning to look at Wazinski.

"No sir, it just stopped. Like it vanished…," Wazinski trailed off, then went pale.

"Ski, sitrep," Boggs barked, beating Dover to the punch.

"Sir, loud explosion on the bearing of 040. Sir, it came from the phantom," Wazinski shouted.

"What?" Dover asked, turning to stare at Wazinski's console.

"Sir, it sounded like a shot being fired, almost like a naval rifle," Wazinski explained.

One of the radar consoles began sounding a rapid beeping alarm. Greg announced a moment later, "Lieutenant, new radar contact. Fast mover on the bearing of 034. Estimate range 300, speed… well over a thousand FPS."

"Missile?" Dover barked. He was about to ask more questions, when the Ocean Flyer blew up. The monitor displaying the freighter pulsed with light and a fireball rose from the ship's center. A moment later a string of secondary detonations pulsed along its length. Soon there was nothing left of the ship but floating pieces of flaming wreckage.

Without even thinking about it, Dover grabbed his headset, and tripped the bridge intercom, "Bridge, CIC, the Ocean Flyer has been destroyed."

A moment later Commander Lee Jones, the Evans' captain replied, "We saw it, CIC. What caused it?"

"Sir, sonar has been tracking a faint contact. We heard the sound of a naval rifle being fired on its last known bearing a second before the Flyer was destroyed. Radar also reports incoming shells before the explosion, source unknown."

"You think they were destroyed by gunfire?" Jones asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"Yes, sir, I do," Dover replied his voice firm with conviction.

Dover heard a muffled reply over the intercom, almost like Jones was holding the handset away from his head as he ordered, "Sound general quarters." A moment later the unmistakable bong-bong-bong sound of the general alarm ripped through the ship. The CIC broke into a frenzy as the crewmen prepared the Evans for battle. Safeties were removed, weapons were readied for use, and firing keys were inserted into consoles. All told it probably only took 30 seconds to complete the process, but for Matt Dover, it seemed like an eternity.

Finally, he trusted his voice enough to bark, "Ski, I want bearing to target."

"035," the reply came back an instant later, "It's moving again, right towards us."

"Greg, backtrack that radar, find the source of those shells," Dover barked.

"Same bearing, similar range," Gregg replied an instant later, "Probably same source." Dover began to furiously type commands into his console, putting up feeds from every mounted on the Evans. They had to get a picture of what they were facing, and fast. If spotting a ship in the twilight gloom is difficult, spotting a ship in the twilight gloom during the middle of a storm is next to impossible. Dover scanned the area frantically with the cameras, looking for something, anything.

He didn't see the ship, what he saw were the orange yellow pulses of guns firing. The stabs of light left searing afterimages in his eyes, and left him stunned.

Greg barked almost immediately, "New radar track, more shells."

It was Master Chief Boggs who spoke first, "The fuck is that?"

"Our phantom," Wazinski replied in a flat tone, "That's what we've been tracking." The guns obscured the ship with a thick, white smoke, gunpowder smoke Dover realized. It took several seconds before it cleared enough for details to be made out. The thing was short and squat. It had a double casemate bristling with guns, and a pair of round, double turrets mounted fore and aft. Dover had seen something like this before, when he had been on leave in Tokyo. He had visited a ship similar to that one, but it was a museum.

"What the hell is a pre-dreadnought battleship doing here?" he asked, confused, "And why is it firing at us?"

The intercom buzzed in his ear, cutting off any further discussion, "CIC, Bridge tell me you have a firing solution on the battleship at 035?"

"Negative, they do not show up on radar. Repeat I do not have a firing solution," Dover replied, "Best I can give you is the 5" in local control." Dover was cut off when one of the monitors showed an image of one of the other destroyers in the formation bursting into flame. It heeled out of line, severely damaged. Dover had no idea which ship it was, and he didn't have time to figure out. If he didn't move quickly, that would be his ship next.

"Goddamn," Boggs said with a low whistle, "That thing packs a punch."

"It's a battleship Master Chief," Wazinski replied, "They were sort of designed to chew up tin cans like us."

Dover ignored the conversation listening to his headset. Jones growled from the bridge, "Dammit, lieutenant, do something about that before more people die. Batteries release at your discretion."

"Aye sir, batteries released," Dover replied, then snapped his fingers, "Weps, engage the track with the five inch, rapid fire."

Ensign Lewis Rodgers, the current weapons officer replied, "Five inch, rapid fire, aye sir."

"Fire," Dover shouted. They couldn't hear it this deep in the ship, but they could definitely see it on their screens. The gun spat an orange tracer with a small puff of grayish smoke, spitting the empty shell casing onto the deck. A second later it barked again, then again. Dover watched with tense anticipation as the first shell crossed the distance to the battleship.

He was horrified when it exploded against the battleship's side, leaving no apparent damage. As if it had been annoyed by the Evans' pinprick, the battleship disappeared in fire as it's guns rippled.

"Radar contact," Greg barked, "It's shooting at us now."

"Batteries release, intercept the incoming," Dover ordered. Theoretically the Evans could shoot the incoming shells out of the sky, but the task was beyond difficult. The practice had once been compared to shooting a bullet out of the sky with another bullet, while riding a horse, but at this point Dover was willing to try anything.

"Roger, killing with birds," Rogers stated calmly, "CIWS to full auto." The foredeck suddenly disappeared in flames as a pair of SM-6 missiles lifted off from the VLS deck. The two gleaming spears quickly turned and sped off towards the battleship. A split second later they detonated into clouds of expanding smoke and shrapnel. Almost as an afterthought, the Phalanx close in weapons system on the rear deck barked, sending a stream of depleted uranium slugs arcing off into the sky. Dover thought he saw it connect with an artillery shell, but it was too dark to be certain.

"Did we kill them all?" Boggs asked, right before the ship shuddered from a hit aft.

"That would be a no," Dover replied dryly. He had to grab on to his seat as the Evans heeled sharply. The captain was maneuvering heavily now, trying to throw off the aim of the next salvo. "Damn it," Dover growled, "It's like we're throwing spitballs at a brick wall." The five inch kept barking, spitting tracers at the monster of a ship. It had been joined by the other guns in the formation now, but they were doing little to the monster but scorch its hull coating.

"Damn thing must have at least an inch of armor," Boggs muttered, "Our 5" was never designed to be armor piercing."

Dover nodded his acknowledgement of the point when Jones's voice came over the intercom, "Lieutenant, ripple fire missiles as fast as you can. Lead them in on beams if you have to. We need to kill this bastard." Dover mentally kicked himself for not thinking of that sooner. The SM-6 anti aircraft missile could be guided in via a radar beam. They didn't need to have a radar contact to do that.

"Aye sir," he replied, then looked at Rogers, "Ripple fire SMs in semi-active. Have them ride a beam."

"Aye aye," Rogers replied, then began to enter commands into his station. A moment later he barked, "Salvo away." The ship shuddered again as SM-6 anti-air missiles blasted out of her VLS cells. "Birds away, engaging kill track 22 double 0." The Evans was once more obscured by flame as missiles flew from her VLS deck. They quickly gained altitude before diving towards the battleship, homing in on the point of radio energy being emitted from the Evans. The other ships in the formation must have had the same idea, because Dover could see more missiles on his screen.

Several of them flew past the target, their complicated computer guidance systems unable to understand the orders they had been given. Others struck home, detonating their warheads in sharp pulses of light. While they had done some damage, the SM-6 was never designed to attack an armored target. The damage it was inflicting was slight at best.

The battleship shrugged off the hits like they were nothing. "Pretty sure we're just making it angry," Greg commented dryly.

Its rate of fire increased, sending dozens of shells at the attacking Americans. Evans kept swatting shells from the sky with its CIWS mounts, but it couldn't stop all of them. The only reason the destroyer hadn't been sunk was that the monster was spreading attention between all the American ships. The destroyers were maneuvering wildly now, trying to dodge the fire it was pumping out, and pumping 5" rounds into it as quickly as their guns could cycle. Missiles were flying in every direction now, but most of them harmlessly flew past. 'We are dueling a battleship in the dark like it's 19 fucking 43' Dover thought angrily. Finally, he shouted, "Weps, can you do anything else? Hell, torpedo the son of a bitch if you have to."

"Torps wouldn't do much," Rogers replied, "Mk 50's are sub killers, nowhere near enough punch to take out that bastard."

Boggs slammed his fists into the desk, causing everyone in the CIC to turn and look, "Damnit, we have to do something other than hurl insults at this thing." They watched in horror as one of the other destroyers, the Mustin he thought, took a round to the bridge. It exploded, and he knew instinctively that no one had survived the blast.

"The Master Chief is right," Dover said, "Launch LRASMs on bearing only. One of them is bound to hit."

"We only have six," Rogers said with a sigh.

"If we have to sink, lets at least get the torpedoes off first," Dover said with a wistful smile.

"Sir?" Greg asked, confused.

"Something someone in my position said once, during a similar situation to this," Dover explained.

The radar alarm went off again, and Greg said, "Well whatever you are planning you better do it soon, my screen just lit up like a Christmas tree. I've got half a dozen new contacts, they just… appeared."

"Where away?" Dover snapped.

"Everywhere, sir," Greg replied. All eyes turned to the camera feed as the world around the Evans lit up with the flashes of gunfire. They all cringed, waiting for the shot that would end them, but it never came. Instead, several shells impacted the battleship, and unlike the Evans' popgun, these did real damage. The battleship's forward turret exploded, sending shrapnel flying in every direction.

"What's going on, Greg?" Dover asked. He was staring at the situation monitor, watching as radar contact symbols popped up on the screen. Something moving caught his eye on the camera feed, and he was stunned when he recognized it. Nosing its way out of the storm was the knife sharp bow of a cruiser. An American cruiser, an old cruiser. He didn't know the exact class, but it was one of those built before WWII. It had three triple turrets mounted forward, only two of which were visible.

"Random ass one hundred year old battleships, only makes sense we get rescued by a ship from war two," Boggs said. The cruiser continued firing its guns, the hits dealing telling damage against the battleship. A similar ship appeared directly behind it, adding its own fire to the mix. Then something else caught Dover's eye. Moving up the other side of the Evans was the sleek form of a destroyer, a type that he was intimately familiar with. With its twin funnels and five 5" guns, its shape was unmistakable. It was a Fletcher. "It gets better, Master Chief," Dover said, a smile coming to his lips, "The small boys are making their run."

The Fletcher cut across the Evans' bow, giving the larger ship a wide berth. A second Fletcher, then a third, and a fourth emerged from the storm, following their van leader. As one, the four destroyers began to fling torpedoes into the water, sending more than a dozen towards the battleship.

"Sir," Wazinski exclaimed, excitement in his voice, "Hydrophone effects, torpedoes in the water."

"I am aware," Dover replied, dismissing the sonar operator with a wave of his hand, "They're ours." It took about two minutes for the Fletcher's torpedoes to reach the battleship, but by the time they struck, its fate had already been sealed. Burning and dead in the water from the damage it had taken, it could do nothing to dodge the incoming torpedoes. They detonated, sending towering columns of water into the air. It wasn't long before the battleship began to roll over, quickly slipping beneath the waves. The CIC was filled with exultant cheers as the crew expressed their relief and joy.

"I hope you were recording that," Dover said, breaking the festive mood.

"From start to finish," Greg replied with a grin, "It'll probably get a million views on YouTube."

Dover shook his head when Commander Jones' voice interrupted him, "CIC, you have any idea what the hell just happened?"

Laughing, Dover replied, "As soon as we figure it out, you'll be the first to know." Looking back he realized just how ridiculous the whole situation seemed. A pre-dreadnought battleship appearing out of nowhere and attacking them for no reason. Then the sudden reinforcements? There was something to this situation beyond what it appeared, and it would probably take Matt Dover the better part of a week to figure it out. Right now though, he had other things on his mind. "Greg, you have the deck."

"Aye sir, I have the deck," Greg replied. Dover gave her a quick nod, then ducked out of the space. He made his way up to the deck. The storm seemed to have died, leaving broken clouds in its wake. He stood on the weather deck, staring out at the ocean for a long moment. He didn't want his subordinates to see how much his hands were shaking right now. He retrieved a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a zippo.

When he looked back up, he saw that one of the Fletcher's had come up alongside the Evans. Then Matt Dover saw something that he would remember for the rest of his life. Standing on the Fletcher's bridge wing facing him, was a young woman, a girl . Slowly, she brought her hand up in salute. He returned the gesture with a level of ceremony that would have been welcome at the parade grounds outside Annapolis. It was only later that he questioned what a girl was doing standing on a destroyer.