Summoning America

Chapter 162: Follicus Island (2)

Dietrich's tapping stopped, his hand becoming limp. "Our existing battle plans are woefully inadequate... futile, even."

The room erupted into overlapping voices: a cacophony of disbelief, speculation, and rapid-fire strategic spit-balling. But amidst the noise, a singular truth emerged. Each officer, whether through tightened jaws or narrowed eyes, displayed a sense of impending vulnerability that went beyond military posture. It was primal; the instinctual realization of facing an unfamiliar predator.

Dietrich raised a hand, and the room hushed. "Enough," he said, voice steady but eyes betraying a storm of thought. "The attack has already begun, there is no turning back now. We'll need to adapt quickly, whatever the case. Prepare for evasive action, and get our fighters in the air to form a defensive screen."

"Yes, sir," came the responses from the admirals.

Dietrich returned to the table, his eyes darting over the radio panel, then the map. His hand hovered over it, as if he could somehow ward off the incoming missiles by sheer will. A dull rumble echoed in the distance, barely audible through the walls – fighters being launched. He glanced at the Muan clock. The ticks gnawed at him as his mind grasped onto hope, but deep down he knew the truth: those ticks were merely counting down the seconds until annihilation.

Voices started breaking in over the communication officers' radios – confirmations of takeoff, repositioning ships, sectors being cleared. Amidst the chatter, Dietrich's ears strained for one crucial update.

"VF-55 at Odin, no contacts," one of the pilots chimed in.

"VF-52 at Erde, just missed them! They're moving to Asgard," another one said.

Then, finally, a voice broke in with the news Dietrich had been anticipating. "VF-50 reports radar confirmation on Asgard, twelve contacts!"

Dietrich moved briskly to the corresponding station, seizing the transmitter. "This is Fleet Admiral Dietrich. Do you have visual confirmation?"

The few seconds of pause were unbearable. Finally, the pilot's voice came through, tense but clear. "VF-50 to Fleet Admiral, we've got eyes on. Engaging now. Over."

Amidst the murmur of voices and the ambient noise of machinery, everyone in the room stopped, listening intently to the radio. Another string of rapid chatter came through as the pilots of Fighter Squadron 50 attempted to intercept the missiles.

"Scratch one, scratch one!"

"Good shots, Gritz!"

Rare smiles graced the room upon word of the successful hit, but the moment was short lived.

"Shit, they're too fast!"

"Fuck, we can't keep up! Get Squadron 72 to intercept!"

The chatter died down, and the squadron leader was finally able to condense the intense action into a simple report. "VF-50 to Fleet Admiral, we got one missile. Others proceeding. Over."

Dietrich felt the eyes of every officer in the room upon him. He didn't have to look to know that each gaze was heavy with anticipation and dread. That hit was pure luck – something they would not be able to repeat again. He picked up the transmitter. "Fleet Admiral to all air units. Resume defensive formation."

More chatter flooded the channels, but it was punctuated by another voice. "VF-63 to Fleet Admiral. New radar contacts. Second wave. Over."

Dietrich clenched his jaw.

Then another report came in, detailing a third group of missiles. Dozens upon dozens of missiles, all nigh-unkillable, and all heading toward his fleet.