An unspeakable terror clamped around M. M's heart, as if it meant to crush it to pulp.
These bombers were coming in at over Mach 30.
When she saw those two hundred tiny reapers drop finger-thick golden bombs from their bellies and start to pull up, she finally broke. A scream tore out of her throat as the huge white wings on her back swung forward and wrapped her whole body, a white shell closing tight.
She abandoned evasive maneuvers. There was no courage left to track those bomb paths—too fast. There was no avoiding them.
Her scream collided with the thunder of the explosions blooming across the sea at her feet.
At that same moment, the Abyssal Hindenburg came under attack.
She was only Level 94—one tier lower than M—but Lexington's side still "paid their respects," sending eighty bombers just for her.
Facing the strike, Hindenburg stood ramrod straight. Jaw clenched. Eyes open and unblinking, burning with a hard, banked fury as she stared down the bombers tearing straight for her face.
Even Lexington had to give her that much.
"Not bad. Very G Faction of her—there's a certain grim style there, even as an Abyssal."
Ranger snorted. "Better than the Hindenburg back at our base. That one's a ditz, and Missouri runs circles around her."
Saratoga giggled. "Love–hate, huh."
They mistook the look in the Abyssal Hindenburg's eyes for courage. Only she knew the truth: there was no fearless resolve—just blanked-out terror. Her mind had gone white, her whole body frozen.
Like a sparrow that folds up and drops when it's shocked out of the tree. Like a pedestrian going stock-still a blink before the car hits. Muscles and nerves seized so hard they wouldn't move.
She tried to force a hand, a foot—nothing. As if Death had already tagged this body for pickup and was just running a little late.
Pickup arrived.
Plump, torpedo-like bombs—shaped like high-leg goblets, half olive drab and half steel gray—ripped the air and dove for her face.
In the instant before impact she spat a curse in her head.
B-25s are two-prop birds. With propeller limits—compressibility, prop tip cavitation—planes like that can't go supersonic. Not in any world that makes sense.
Then why—why are these prop planes that fast? No time even to flinch? How is this remotely scientific?
I… I still want this body—
Eighty bombs hit almost as one. She felt herself shatter into a million pieces. Only then did the shriek of air torn apart by passing aircraft finally arrive—too late for her to hear.
"Highboy bombs—first strike, on target!"
Ranger whooped and flashed a quick V-sign.
Saratoga shot her a salty look over the pink open-front sweater. "With wind like this, you're not cold?"
Ranger cackled. "I run warm. And the Commander loves this look. Didn't say it, but he snuck seven glances at breakfast. You could try it, Sara."
Saratoga bit her lip and turned away. She had tried; sadly, her figure did not cooperate with open-front sweaters.
"All units, scatter north and punch out. Regroup fifty nautical miles north of the Abyssal core," Lexington said with a weary smile. "Report results."
Taihou went first. "Groups Three and Four confirm three kills—Abyssal M-class battleship flagships, six-star."
Ranger: "Group Two confirmed Abyssal Hindenburg—sunk."
Saratoga pumped a fist. "Group One: Abyssal M-class flagship—confirmed kill."
Lexington nodded. "Groups Five and Six, four confirmed: Abyssal Λ- and Ψ-class battleship flagships, two each."
From the side, Bismarck listened, then gave a crisp nod. "Looks like you hit the objective."
[End of Chapter]