Faced with Musashi's accusation, the Airfield Princess didn't look great—not that you could tell through the charcoal-black sheen of her skin anyway.
"They're stronger than I expected. My plan wasn't the problem; I just haven't had the carrier groups long enough to bring them up to fighting form." She grudgingly admitted she'd been outplayed, then added, "I've already sent every fighter I have to hound them aloft. We must deny them any opening to strike."
Musashi snorted. As if the enemy wouldn't find a window. Still, with half a million to six hundred thousand Abyssal fighters swarming, they could at least force the bombers to jink constantly and slow their strike tempo.
As for the Abyssal bombers, they remained massed in thousand-plane blocks, on station as a screen—no telling if the enemy might double back with another decapitation run.
A black hawk fluttered onto the Airfield Princess's shoulder and croaked into her ear.
Her face lit. She slammed a fist into her palm. "The left and right vanguards have launched—enemy carrier groups now under air attack!"
With Flagship M sunk, the Airfield Princess had taken over the carriers and the liaison to both flanks' armies.
Light flared in Musashi's eyes. "Good. Let them taste a real bombing!"
Two storm-fronts of Abyssal aircraft rolled in from left and right like thunderheads, spilling across the sky.
Together they numbered over eight hundred thousand, with more than four hundred thousand bombers and torpedo planes in the mix.
Staring down that immensity, Lexington didn't so much as blink. She guided another hundred-plus six-star bombers into being, snapped them to Mach 30, and slashed straight for the Abyssal center three hundred nautical miles away.
This was a war of attrition now, and whoever spent more on defense would lose faster.
Carriers aren't for turtling. Carrier aviation is about striking first and breaking the enemy.
Ahead of her, Leipzig rubbed her hands, nerves showing.
Two days ago the base had already ridden out two million-scale raids, but that had been with the entire base thrown into anti-air—Yamato, Alaska, the works—and hundreds of friendly fighters carving through enemy clouds.
Now the load was on Leipzig, Fletcher, and Helena: not only flak, but sonar screens as well—subs are slow, but who knows if the Abyssals haven't slipped wolfpacks into ambush range under cover of the storm?
"Don't tense up," Helena smiled at Leipzig. "I don't even get why you're nervous. With Hikaru right behind us watching us work—this is the kind of thing I've dreamed about for years. I'm shaking, but from excitement."
Leipzig shot her a look and pouted.
Helena probably just said that because she knew the Commander was listening from behind. Fine then—two can play that game. "I'm not nervous," Leipzig sniffed. "I'm worried about the warehouse. If that gets hit, the repairs alone will bankrupt us."
Fletcher fluttered, flustered. "Uh, do I… also say something? I'm just… worried about my sisters, is all."
In her brown maid dress, Repulse laughed. "You're all hedging. Me? To protect our Commander, I'll stake everything I've got!"
That resolve had literal form: her skill [Malay Dusk]. It spoke for itself.
She heaved the two-meter gun-rig to her shoulder and fired straight into the oncoming Abyssal swarms.
Boom.
A thousand golden blossoms burst among the enemy mass; the Abyssal formations scattered in a panic.
Tight formations are best for focus fire. Loose formations are best for surviving flak.
Repulse fired the opening shot. Prince of Wales tossed back the last mouthful of red wine, slapped the base of her newly-fitted AA mounts, and her three turrets spat a red torrent of Type-3 shells in rippling streams.
It looked almost like a side-scrolling shooter—except her shells were far faster. Three quad mounts, twelve barrels; together they were hurling nearly six thousand rounds a minute—an absurd figure for a battleship girl, but here and now, exactly what the sky demanded.
[End of Chapter]