Jakob H. Greif
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Outrage of the Ancients Chapter 77: Terror of the Ocean
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 10:27:59 +0000 UTCDrake
There are three kinds of people: those who are alive, those who are dead, and those who are at sea.
An old truth, one that had proven true all too often in his day but been rendered largely false by modern communications capabilities. Even the radio had changed the paradigm, never mind satellites and the like.
… When there wasn’t a monster with the ability to completely and utterly shut down all long-distance mucking about. Again.
At least this time, they had other ships within range that they could still talk to, and the threat had even been located to boot. But that didn’t make it any less disconcerting.
Cor blimey, he’d gotten soft. A few months of modern communications had wiped away a lifetime of tolerating isolation.
“The Bismarck is back?” Drake asked, staring at the screen currently displaying a video conference. “I’ll take battlegroup Wisconsin out hunting immediately.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Admiral Chambers ordered. “The Bismarck was, among other things, designed to fight past battleships, but has a noted lack of effective air defense. The Carrier Strike Group’s air wing will deal with this; Task Force Wisconsin will provide protection, should the Bismarck close the distance.”
Drake hid a sigh while clenching his fist beneath his desk, out of view of the video conference’s camera.
Chambers wasn’t wrong, per se, but the battleship Bismarck hadn’t been designed to kill battleships, just survive an engagement with them.
Not to mention that its fire control radar had been horrifyingly badly placed, having been destroyed in the very first engagement not by the fire of the Bismarck’s British pursuers, but the shockwave of her own guns firing.
Granted, the ludicrously heavy armor belt had been a problem, to the point where her pursuers had started shelling the deck instead, lacking the ability to penetrate the heavy outer hull.
All in all, the Bismarck had been a massive potential problem to the British Empire of the 1940s, not for her pure combat power, but her stated design purpose.
Commerce raiding.
A high speed to make intercepts easier, or even possible in the first place, heavy guns that could tear apart cargo ships, and rip through the armor of any military vessel likely to be accompanying said cargo ship as though it were made of straw, while having armor concentrated at the belt, to ensure that no matter what, the vessel didn’t sink and was able to keep going forward and hopefully reach port.
Overall, Drake could have taken an initial, straight out of the yard, Iowa against the Bismarck and won nine fights out of ten. A larger number of heavier guns, better fire control, greater speed, armor that was stronger everywhere except the belt, and history showed that the Bismarck’s rudder was exceedingly vulnerable, all perfectly doable.
That being said, a battleship engagement involved the enemy being able to shoot back, and the Wisconsin was one of only two currently commissioned vessels of that qualification. At least if one discounted ceremonial vessels such as the HMS Victory, a centuries-old sailing vessel that was, technically, the flagship of the entire Royal Navy.
No, as far as true, working battleships went, there were two, both reactivated museum vessels of the American Iowa-class.
The Wisconsin, magically overhauled, newly nuclear-powered, in full fighting shape, negotiated away from the United States, as well as the USS Missouri, which was being brought back into service via more mundane means and presently suffering from major structural damage due to having been flipped upside down by a Continent Boss.
In other words, functional battleships were an extremely limited commodity.
And while fighting a “peer” vessel should have been easy for the Wisconsin, a monsterized battleship would be a whole other kettle of fish, but so was a British flotilla commanded by a man who could control the very laws of probability.
“Yes, Admiral,” Drake conceded.
Chambers really was right. Carriers beat battleships, battleships trashed monsters, and monsters were the bane of carriers. The new paradigm of warfare, at least when the monsters weren’t battleships.
Drake would stay put; he had specific orders.
Though it would have been a grand battle, wouldn’t it …
***
2 hours later
“Everything alright with the ship, Captain Smith?” Drake asked via the intercom that connected the flag bridge to the ship’s bridge, one level above.
“All systems running optimally, reactor’s running smoothly, all guns locked and loaded, munitions stores filled to the brim … if we have to engage, we’ll be fighting at one hundred percent.”
The younger man sounded to be in a similar headspace as Drake. His former command, the destroyer Defiant, was still in the yard, and given their track record of working together, had been put in command of the HMS Wisconsin.
They were both on the verge of going stir-crazy. Their current formation was a near-merger of both Task Force Wisconsin and the Carrier Strike Group, but only the latter was taking any action, or liable to achieve anything, if the situation went even remotely according to plan, missiles and planes would rip apart their targets.
But they also couldn’t relax; they were acting as escorts and knew there was a threat out there.
Though Drake was also feeling about as useful as a chocolate teapot, given that he was one of three admirals involved in this mess.
Admiral Chambers aboard the Queen Elizabeth, in command of the entire operation, Admiral Porter aboard the Prince of Wales, acting as his second in command, and Drake himself, the Vice Admiral sitting aboard a task force of one ship, the Wisconsin’s normal escorts having been folded into the carrier flotilla, and it was the captain who commanded a ship, not an admiral which may or may not be aboard.
In the end, Francis Drake had been reduced to merely a source of buffing Skills, and he did not care for it.
Normally, he’d still do something if allowed to do so, if there was even the tiniest bit of wiggle room in his orders, like that time he’d “randomly come across” a Spanish galleon during a night while the Royal Navy was fighting the Armada … but the people of this time had known exactly what he was like even before he’d returned.
Even he wouldn’t ignore orders as ironclad as these.
Drake began to drum his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then stopped himself. Admirals did not show irritation, for otherwise, the crew tended to grow nervous, and morale mattered, as he well knew. Confidence, camaraderie, and being able to depend on each other could take you far.
Just not past orders, especially when your superior was close enough to watch you without even needing binoculars.
Of course, the chances that Porter had the time to spare to actually surveil him constantly were minimal … but this was how all this worked. The situation had shaken out that way, and now, he had to deal with it.
Overhead, jets screamed past, their engines howling like the hounds of hell, off to do the thing he could not.
Drake glanced over at the communications officer, waiting for the signal, which came a couple of seconds after the sound of distant explosions reached his ears.
[Instantaneous Reload] was cast, all those planes in the distance had their missile hardpoints reloaded, the munitions for their guns topped up, assuming they’d used them, and generally ensuring that anyone who had survived the initial firing run would be able to immediately fire again.
Another staccato of explosions, and a few minutes later, the planes once again passed overhead, in the opposite way.
“Is the Bismarck still there?” Drake asked, knowing the answer was “yes,” anything else would have been reported immediately.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Any losses?”
“No, Sir.”
Once again, as expected.
Drake let the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. At least that was also as expected. Even if becoming a monster had enhanced the Bismarck, it did not seem as though the overall design had changed overly much.
Though what the original designers had been thinking had been … hard to imagine. Even if the warship hadn’t been designed for solo operations, the Kriegsmarine hadn’t had even a single carrier that could have escorted her.
And they still hadn’t given her proper air defense.
Even an Iowa had better AA, and those were designed to be carrier escorts, perpetually attached to a ready source of air cover.
But it was always nice when the enemy was a moron.
Much like how, in Ancient Greece, the Persian fleet had sailed into the strait of Salamis, heavy and ponderous ships meant for the open ocean, utterly helpless against smaller and far faster Greek triremes that could run circles around them.
Ah, modernity. Not just four hundred years of new naval history to catch up on, but readily accessible accounts of everything that had happened even before his first lifetime. Plenty of things to keep his mind busy … though not something he could do in the right here and now.
Back and forth, the planes flew, and missiles rose from the batteries on the destroyers escorting the capital ships to flash off into the distance around an hour later.
Drake grimaced. The Bismarck of old would have been destroyed, quite literally, a hundred times over by now, but apparently, that accursed ship was continuing its advance.
And then the message came in, the one he’d been awaiting and dreading in equal measure.
The Bismarck was getting too close for comfort, and now, it would be up to the Wisconsin to engage.
“Take us in, Captain Smith,” Drake ordered. “Bring us side-on upon just prior to engagement range so we’re crossing her t. All escorting destroyers are to maintain a greater distance than the Wisconsin.”
“Crossing the T” meant moving perpendicular to an enemy’s course, so that they were facing you bow-on, something that, on ships such as those presently involved in this engagement, the enemy’s bridge was between the rear turrets and the enemy, while your entire broadside could fire on them.
Of course, the Wisconsin could profit less from that than most ships, only having a single turret on her stern, but her opponent did have the standard distribution of two turrets forward, two turrets aft.
Meanwhile, the destroyers were far too small to stand in the line of battle.
That was actually where the name “battleship” had come from; it was a shortened version of “line of battle ship.”
The destroyers, meanwhile, had emptied their missile tubes already, most of which could not be reloaded while underway, leaving them with “just” the 5-inch popguns they had on their bows, and, perhaps, helicopters on their rear landing pads and whatever weaponry those could carry.
But the rest of the battlegroup was still an important part of all this, after all, during the refit, the Wisconsin’s secondaries had been utterly gutted in favor of adding extra air defense, the modern, rapid-fire CWIS systems that could intercept even the best missiles but lacked the range heft to be effective against warships, not unless they got far too close, and even then, they’d only be good for tearing up exposed equipment on the deck.
“The Wisconsin is about to enter effective range.”
The report came just as the battleship began to slew to the side, deck tilting slightly from the abrupt turn.
A moment passed, then a second, as the massive gun platform that was the battleship stabilized, the turrets locking into place as the fire control system settled on a final targeting solution.
And then the entire world was drowned out by the thunder of 16-inch guns firing and gouts of smoke nearly half the length of the vessel, and the entire ship trembled underfoot.
But they were already reloading, and thirty seconds later, they roared to life again.
And then, almost a minute and a half after the first salvo, the sound of distant explosions rang out, signaling its impact against something other than the ocean’s surface.
Time and time again, the Wisconsin’s guns fired, Drake’s bridge crew falling back into the now-familiar pattern of pausing conversations whenever a salvo was imminent to avoid being interrupted.
The reports were flowing constantly, lots and lots of impacts being registered, and the radar could register metal chunks of various sizes falling off and sinking, but that was just about all.
“Any changes in spee- …” Drake’s question was cut off as twin columns of water erupted into the sky just off the Wisconsin’s bow.
He flinched, even as he could feel the ship begin to enter a series of evasive maneuvers.
That first enemy salvo might have missed, but it had been on target enough that it may have hit if it hadn’t been for his own luck Skills. A vessel as old as the Bismarck should have had several salvos that went completely wide as she found a range. The fact that that hadn’t been required indicated their opponent had been on the receiving end of some serious upgrades.
The Wisconsin’s guns began to fire more erratically, the steady rhythm of the previous minutes growing steadily more chaotic as they had to retarget to adjust for the maneuvers, and as those seconds added up, holding a conversation on the bridge was becoming harder and harder. Of course, individually, the guns didn’t quite match up to a full broadside in terms of noise level, but they still practically had to yell.
Some people had Skills capable of making themselves heard over that mess, regardless of how loudly they spoke, but Drake, sadly, did not.
Instead, he was focusing on fulfilling his “duty” of acting as a living buff totem, deflecting the incoming shells even as he fixed his eyes on the horizon, where he knew the enemy had to be coming from.
And there it was, peeling itself out of a fog that had seemingly appeared solely to provide a backdrop for that vessel’s entrance.
The naval legend that had only ever sunk a single ship. By a random, one in a million shot that had gone through negligently weak deck armor and straight into the magazines of the HMS Hood, destroying the ship in a single shot.
And, in a dark twist of bitter irony, the man the ship had been named after, Rear Admiral Horace Hood, had similarly died when his flagship, the HMS Invincible, had been destroyed far too easily at the battle of Jutland alongside several more battlecruisers due to a noted lack of armor.
There was a reason why Drake had opposed to any plans to build new ones the moment he learned of them.
Battlecruisers were designed to wreck smaller ships and run away from anything capable of damaging them, namely, battleships.
But long-range, “safe,” strikes were already done perfectly by a different type of ship in the modern navy, by the carriers.
If you wanted a ship that could engage monsters at closer range, you needed battleships … something the armchair admirals back in London seemed categorically incapable of grasping, they simply zeroed in on the low speed of vessels like Drake’s flagship and decided to “fix that” in a way that cost the resulting the design one of the two key aspects a battleship needed, namely, the armor.
But this was not the ship that had led the vast majority of the Royal Navy’s ships in the North Atlantic on a chase for several days.
No, decidedly not.
A massive skull of steel the size of a building, cold eyes staring, sat where the vessel’s bridge should have been, with a series of long, chainlike tentacles hanging off either side like some kind of bizarre variant of those dreadlocks he’d seen a few civilians sport on one of the rare occasions he’d been outside military areas.
Though all the tentacles on the port side were dipping into the ocean, dragging in the water and causing the Bismarck to slowly slew in that direction, acting as a poor but improvised method of steering.
Well, the flyboys had claimed they’d gotten the rudder.
But overall, the entire ship was looking like it had been through three separate tropical storms back-to-back, massive chunks ripped out of anything above the waterline, the front-most turret torn to pieces, the second looking rough, the skull that sat amidships appearing as though it had been used as a football by an angry giant.
Yet even so, each of the lights flashing atop the enemy deck indicated a weapon firing, and a metal-covered bomb flying their way, even as the battleship underfoot moved to avoid the Bismarck’s ragged salvos.
It didn’t work.
The Wisconsin shuddered under the impact of a trio of shells, two point defense turrets shattering under the hammerblows of the high-explosive munitions, while the third detonated “harmlessly” against the deck, the armor having largely succeeded, though taking too many hits in that exact position would still be … less than optimal.
“[Ramming Speed],” Drake ordered, vocalizing the Skill to ensure that others knew what he had done, and could adjust to the fact that the battleship beneath them had suddenly launched forward with enough speed to avoid anything aimed at any place they could have realistically reached.
Five seconds later, the Skill ran out, both the speed boost and protection on the bow that would have made the impact survivable for them winking out.
And behind them, the ocean erupted into a whole series of waterspouts as the enemy shells, predictably, missed entirely.
Drake was about to announce the activation of [Adapt Armor], trusting in the Skill more than normally, as only a single “kind” of attack was incoming presently, only to be cut off by the thunder of his own ship’s guns, Captain Smith having apparently held off on firing while the fire-control systems were confused by the acceleration Skill.
Now, how would the ship handle the next impact?
In the distance, the Bismarck’s deck twinkled as the guns fired, but …
“They’re aiming for the carriers instead,” the officer watching the radar reported. Granted, those ships were at the very edge of their enemy’s range, in fact, well-beyond where it should have been able to reach, so the first attack should fall short, but if that continued, it would still end very, very badly.
Ah, hell, Drake thought, as he activated yet another Skill to forestall that.
[Numbers Don’t Matter] had, originally, allowed Drake to declare a duel with an individual opponent and fight them and only them, irrespective of how many other enemies were surrounding him, quite literally forcing his foes to come at him or his ship one at a time, at least so long as the indidual fights were longer than the Skill’s cooldown.
But he’d upgraded it.
And now, it could also be applied the other way around, forcing an enemy to ignore his allies, and exclusively fight against him, forced to bash their head into the strongest part of the Royal Navy’s formation, which was, inevitably, the Wisconsin.
All fifty thousand tons of battleship rang like a bell as the next salvo hammered home.
Drake’s eyes flicked over towards the engineering watchstander.
“Damage report,” he ordered.
“Minimal, Admiral. The armor took it.”
Even the direct hit to A-turret?
Drake frowned as he glanced out the window, seeing that the Wisconsin’s forwardmost turret was now covered in soot but seemingly perfectly functional.
Although it seemed the Bismarck was now attempting to get a lot closer than it had to. Was it going to ram? It was in for a long, stern chase, if that was the case, but it would still be bad if it reached them.
Overhead, another sortie from the carriers shot past, blooms of fire from countless missiles momentarily obscuring the enemy ship.
“Admiral, do you think you can protect the ship from close-range fire, three miles at closest approach, for around five minutes?”
That message had come over the internal comms circuit, from the Wisconsin’s actual bridge, just a single floor away from the flag bridge. Apparently, Captain Smith had a plan …
“If you’re planning on a close-in firing pass to get behind the Bismarck, yes,” Drake replied, managing to find the correct button in less than a second, something he was far more proud of than he had any right to be.
But these things were finicky, damnit, and he’d finally figured out how to make them work.
“Get ready, one minute.”
And that was that. Drake began activating his Skills.
All his Skills.
[Fortune Favors the Bold], [Shared Fortune], [The Hand of Lord Fortune], and finally, [Directed Fortune] to control exactly how their lucky breaks played out.
Nothing that would last forever, but for the duration of this next maneuver, they’d be the next best thing to untouchable.
Whatever the monstrous Bismarck wanted to do, the fact that its “steering” comprised solely of dragging its tentacles through the water meant that it had a huge turning radius, so if they just went past it, they’d be able to position themselves behind it and stay there in relative safety, especially if they managed to take out the rear turrets.
The Wisconsin slewed to port to head straight towards the monstrous battleship, aiming for a close pass that their enemy couldn’t hope to match, even if its maneuverability magically doubled out of nowhere.
And as the distance closed, fire began to grow more and more accurate and deadly. When it hit the enemy, that was. Shells hammered into seams in armor and shattered anything upon the deck, while anything that struck the Wisconsin slipped off as though it had been one of those rubber bouncy balls skipping off a greased surface, often only detonating dozens, if not hundreds, of meters on the battleship’s other side.
Another turret exploded, the rearmost one, which the Bismarck immediately responded to by wrapping the tentacles on the far side around its deck, shielding the weapons at any time they weren’t firing.
Drake tapped the communications control once again, calling up to the bridge.
“Captain Smith, hold fire for a few seconds, I’d like to set up a proper use of [Bullet Hell],” he asked, and received an affirmative a moment later.
Drake looked out of the window, watching the enemy vessel, the distance having been reduced enough for him to be able to pick out details without having to use [A Closer Look] as a magical spyglass.
What was the right timing … “Fire!” Drake ordered, voice slightly harsher than he intended, and once again, fire and smoke drowned out the world.
Mentally counting the seconds, he waited, until he activated [Bullet Hell], creating an illusory dome centered on the Bismarck, five hundred meters in diameter.
It would last for five seconds, and any projectile that touched it could enter from any point on the sphere, at any angle, all under his direct control.
But there was far more to timing that little trick correctly than just making sure all of the Wisconsin’s shells hit the Skill before it timed out. Because said ability did not just work on attacks that hit the outside of the dome.
A split-second before his own salvo hit, the Bismarck fired, its shells vanishing the moment it crossed the invisible boundary and reappeared in a cluster above the second, the last remaining rear turret, and hammering down as one, shattering the weapon in an overwhelming burst of fire and flame.
Then, the Wisconsin’s shells, far more numerous and individually quite a bit larger and heavier, poured down into the exact same spot, further trashing the remains of the turret and tearing up the deck around it, but also, more importantly, falling down into the turret well and detonating within the guts of the Bismarck.
Drake braced himself, a grin beginning to creep onto his face in expectation of the enemy munitions cooking off … nothing happened.
Hrmph. Did the damn thing generate its munitions ex nihilo, avoiding having the magazines as a vulnerable point?
A moment after that, a dull explosion rang out, and the Bismarck staggered, then whatever propulsion it had cut out.
Finally.
Drake, who’d been half-rising out of his chair without meaning to, relaxed and leaned back into the back of his seat. Granted, that hadn’t been the finishing blow he’d intended it to be, but the fight was over now, especially for him. Staying behind the Bismarck, entirely out of range of any of her remaining guns, was a piece of cake, and not something he was needed to help with.
In fact, he shouldn’t, because any “help” he provided from here on would be more like annoying interference with Captain Smith’s operations.
Which just left him free to watch as the enemy battleship was pounded into scrap in a satisfying recreation of its original defeat.
But as he watched the vessel slip beneath the waves fifteen minutes later, he realized something.
The Bismarck’s monstrous transformation had been an armored juggernaut that had weathered far more than any other ship could have, the Wisconsin included.
Which settled something.
“Fletcher, call up the Untersberg, ask for contact with Emperor Charlemagne or Tristan Vogt, whoever’s in charge of archives, if neither are available,” Drake ordered his communications officer.
And after a couple of minutes, he was able to turn his chair around by ninety degrees and speak directly to a man hundreds of kilometers away without delay. It would become normal at some point, but that day was not today.
“Vice Admiral, I was told you wanted to talk to me immediately. Is this a logistics issue?” Charlemagne immediately asked. His skill set was all about logistics and knowledge, making him near-godlike in both arenas. In fact, Drake would not have been surprised to learn there was enough material on hand to rebuild the Wisconsin in its entirety in storage.
“Partially, a resupply of munitions would be appreciated, but this is about an important piece of information about the fifth Challenge,” Drake replied. “Are you aware of the Bismarck?”
“The ship, not the statesman?” Charlemagne clarified. “Battleship in the Second World War, just returned with the title of “Terror of the Ocean,” and was just destroyed by the Royal Navy.”
Drake nodded. “The ship was sunk, yes, but it was an all-around juggernaut; it shrugged off a lot of hits all over, which does not mesh with historical records. The Bismarck had one of the thickest armor belts on record, 4th in all WW2-era battleships, but lacked that same extraordinary protection elsewhere.”
Unlike, say, Iowa-class battleships like his flagship, which had heavy armor on every critical system, plus proper sloping of the belt in an Iowa allowed it to survive more hits than pure thickness might indicate.
“However, the general impression of the Bismarck is that she was an indomitable juggernaut that took everything two battleships and two heavy cruisers could give for the better part of an hour, and didn’t even sink, but was scuttled by her own crew. The impression is of a super battleship that would have dominated the waves if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate encounter on her maiden voyage, rather than a commerce raider that was skillfully intercepted by the Royal Navy.
“My point is that while obvious characteristics such as the number and location of weapons matched the historical records, many of the Bismarck’s other characteristics are more akin to the image painted in popular culture.”
Charlemagne nodded grimly.
“One incident alone is not proof of the idea of an even or vehicle informing what form it will take as a monster, but it is an indication that it counts for something. Thank you, Vice Admiral. And you are sure that neither you nor the other ships in the Royal Navy are in need of supplies?”
“All ships are fully stocked and have not use up too much fuel and munitions,” Drake replied. “Thank you for the offer. I bid you goodbye.”
After a slight inclination of his head, he cut the connection and returned to looking out of the main window, staring at the spot where the enemy ship had gone beneath the waves, until eventually, a message that the final pilot had been recovered reached his ears, the man apparently having managed to eject before his plane had been destroyed.
All told, an almost bloodless battle … but blood was just about the only thing they hadn’t bled in vast quantities. The destroyers had shot themselves dry, the Wisconsin’s munitions reserves were averaging sixty percent, and even the carriers had used up around a quarter of their reloads for their airwings.
Sure, the naval base at Portsmouth had enough supplies to make up for the expenditure … but that would likely be it.
Missiles had been in short supply the entire time, and while shells for the Wisconsin’s guns were simple, they still weren’t easy to manufacture or in large supply. If they had to fight too many more big naval engagements, it could get hairy.
