They were now aboard a destroyer maintaining strict radio silence, using special supernatural magic to keep the ship's position from being broadcast into the Abyssal Sea.
The moment that silence was broken, the Abyssals would trace the signal straight to them. That would mean the total collapse of the operation—every detail the planners had exhausted themselves over, every ton of material invested, all gone to waste.
Takeyama would then face charges of betrayal on the battlefield—an offense starting at thirty years' imprisonment and going up to execution.
And what could Takeyama possibly say in a military tribunal? He had no proof. Was he supposed to drag the Fleet Admiral's adjutant in and demand a cross-examination?
If rooting out an Abyssal spy were that easy, it would be far too cheap.
The more he thought about it, the more it looked like a dead end.
London was so anxious she stomped her feet, pacing in circles. "What do we do then?"
"Keep your voice down. Even if sound is sealed, stomping on the deck could carry below. We don't need to disturb the crew." Takeyama gave a bitter smile. "What can we do? Leave it to fate. Once the feint mission is complete, I'll report to headquarters immediately."
London pointed at the bunk above, where Franya was lying on her side. "What if I send Franya back through the night to deliver the warning?"
Though Takeyama was the bait, it was London who was truly executing the feint.
After all, she had the divine skill that reduced fatal damage to just five points.
London could not be spared.
"That won't work either. And again—the same issue. We have no evidence. No one will believe us. They'll think I, Takeyama Takeshi, am just a coward trying to save my own skin."
On the front line, where admirals and shipgirls stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the Abyssals, nothing was more despised than those four words: afraid of death.
If other shipgirls could dare to sacrifice themselves, yours could not shrink back. Otherwise, what—were your shipgirls precious, but theirs expendable?
If Takeyama ordered Viribus Unitis to turn back, the cohesion of the entire fleet might drop by a third or more. On a mission that demanded absolute coordination, it would be digging his own grave.
London slumped down on the bunk, burying her face in her hands, utterly dejected.
She felt more trapped now than if Abyssal Barbarossa herself were to blast her point-blank.
While admiral and marriage ship sat in silence, Franya suddenly rolled over above them, poking her head down.
"I wasn't asleep. As for the general's troubles—I have a solution."
Takeyama shook his head. "And what could you possibly do?"
It wasn't that he looked down on his own shipgirl. As a max-level ship, Viribus Unitis was competent enough in combat. But her eccentric personality kept others at arm's length, and Takeyama knew her well. He simply couldn't imagine she had either the means or the connections.
There were two keys here: first, to deliver a warning without breaking radio silence; second, to convince the high command—at least the Fleet Admiral—that the operation must be aborted.
Could she really manage that?
Franya plucked a single blue petal from her hair and held it up.
"This was given to me by Miss Lexington after the great battle of the South Seas. Those days, her admiral often borrowed my sword, which I disliked. So she offered this enchanted petal as compensation. She said, if I burn it, I can reach her."
In the warm glow of the wall lamp, the blue petal seemed to shimmer like starlight.
London's eyes lit up. "If there's anyone who could persuade the Fleet Admiral, it's Kuramoto Hikaru!"
The two sides might be at odds, but among the top brass, Hikaru's name carried enormous weight—not as authority, but as raw power.
If the warning came from him, even as empty words, the command would treat it with gravity.
The more Takeyama thought about it, the more he agreed. He broke into a grin. "Franya, you've truly saved us!"
Franya huffed in displeasure. "Address me as 'Your Majesty,' not so rudely!"
December 1st, early morning.
"The Abyssal fleet has arrayed itself fifteen degrees northeast of the base, three hundred nautical miles out. Their carriers are massing for formation—likely preparing for a bombing strike."
On the retreating harbor, Saratoga reported gravely to Lexington.
And not only the harbor—the entire floating island itself was sliding southward, withdrawing at roughly thirty knots.
[End of Chapter]
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