Inside the port, Missouri serves as secretary, while Wisconsin keeps the books—the former the Iowa-class's third ship, the latter the fourth.
Only four Iowa-class battleships were ever completed. With the succeeding Montana-class canceled, they stood as the United States Faction's last battleships—before carriers came to rule the seas.
All four Iowas are legends. They commonly served as the flagship for U.S. presidents or the Chief of Naval Operations; both Wisconsin and Missouri shelled the J-Faction homeland, and Missouri hosted the signing of the unconditional surrender.
Their in-story strength matches their renown. Even unrefitted, Missouri and Wisconsin—on raw stats and skills alone—can stand shoulder to shoulder with the port's strongest refitted battleships, sometimes surpassing them.
Which makes you wonder how terrifying they'll be after refits.
Thinking that, Hikaru glanced at Alaska, who was sitting on the floor carefully polishing a Brass Knight missile.
Strictly speaking, Alaska is historically a "large cruiser"; even refitted here she's a guided-missile cruiser. Missouri is different—once refitted she's a true, top-tier missile battleship.
That said, Hikaru doesn't especially like Wisconsin. Unlike Missouri's breezy, big-sister energy, Wisconsin gives off a sly, yandere vibe that just doesn't mesh with him.
He was still day-dreaming about his ships when the storehouse doors banged open.
Raider rushed in, face taut. "Abyssal base elements have joined the northern force. Visuals on Airfield Princess and Fortress Princess."
Night. It was hard to tell whether the clouds or the sky itself were darker; a storm chewed the horizon to rags.
Abyssal Base No. 544 looked like a floating island ten kilometers on a side, drifting into the Abyssal main body under escort by over a million units.
On that hundred-square-kilometer platform squatted a massive "egg" of a fortress, fifty square kilometers at the base: honeycombed hexagonal white armor plates everywhere, and ranks of colossal blue triple turrets rising like a forest.
Compared to these hundred-meter guns, a shipgirl's "micro-turrets" were toy-sized and almost cute.
That fixed, egg-shaped citadel on Base 544 was the Fortress Princess's rigging—a war-platform with a volume measured in the hundreds of cubic kilometers.
Beside it, the other half of 544 was smothered under a warped, black graveyard.
Twisted, claw-like "trees" of shadow; beneath them, rows upon rows of rectangular tombstones stood to attention—by the aerial look, there had to be ten thousand at least.
Crows crossed the boneyard, perching on stones to cough out hoarse cries.
This was the airfield of the Abyssal X.Fliegerkorps.
A tall, charcoal-black woman strode down onto the sea, gold whip in hand, an eagle-crested cap on her head, a black bikini on her body, and slim heels buckled with Iron-Cross straps.
Because of her scorched coloration, humans mockingly called her "Roasted Sweet Potato."
At her side walked a white-haired, blue-eyed cat-eared girl in a skimpy white camisole—soft and kittenish to the eye.
She was the master of that fortress—the Fortress Princess, Pachina.
Abyssal Musashi came to meet them. "X.Fliegerkorps. Pachina. You finally made it."
"I half expected to arrive to cheers of victory," the Airfield Princess said, staring Musashi down, voice edged with scorn. "Instead all I hear is the joke about 'Abyssal Yamato 30074' diving in a panic. How did you let the front rot to this? Is your training as watered-down as 30074's brains?"
Abyssal Musashi was not the type to swallow that. "Wait till you see who you're facing. Try not to wet yourself."
"How dare you talk to me like that? Who begged me to come clean up this mess? If you're so capable, you should have crushed that tiny port before we got here!"
Her gold whip cracked in front of Musashi's face—sharp enough to make Abyssal Hindenburg's eye twitch.
[End of Chapter]
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