Summoning America

Author's Note:
There will be a short break next week on Summoning America as I work on outlining the end of the Gra Valkan arc. This will involve a lot of research on real world politics and political history. Chapter updates might therefore take longer, but I hope that the quality and length will make up for it.

– –

 

February 15, 1641

Otaheit, Mu

31st Marine Expeditionary Unit, Seventh Fleet

USS America (LHA-6)

 

The cool ocean breeze, the seagulls in the air, the warm sun, the huff and puff of a good cigar? Man! For all intents and purposes, this might as well have been Yokosuka. Damn near everything about this place reminded him of home, if not for the iron warships in the distance belching smoke. Like damn, was this a set for The Final Countdown 2?

 

Colonel Henson had seen some Muan ships here and there around the Holy Mirishial Empire, but seeing a whole fleet of these interwar-era dreadnoughts and cruisers in person was quite the sight. Almost beautiful, he had to admit. And then there were the Mirishial vessels, mixed in between. Shit, he couldn’t even think of a reference for those. Most people he talked to saw their aesthetic as elven. Basic, but aptly fitting, given the golden pomp of their ships.

 

That wasn’t even mentioning the massive Mercedes-Benz logo flying in the air. What was it, a Pal Chimera? Crazy shit like that, plus the Otaheit city skyline, plus the whole host of other weird anachronisms, all reminded him that yes, he was indeed in another world. Somehow, it seemed both normal and not. 

 

“Sir,” a voice called out behind him. “We’re preparing to go over docking procedures.”

 

If there was one sliver of normalcy in all this, it was his job. Even in another world, the USMC was still the USMC. Henson turned around, cigar still in his mouth. “Alright. Let’s go.”

 

He followed the man to the bridge. Once there, he observed the ship’s captain address the communications officer.

 

“Raise the Otaheit Port Authority on VHF channel 6. Let's get harbor clearance and berthing procedures," the captain ordered.

 

“Aye, sir. Raising them now.”

 

The lieutenant worked the comms system, and soon a voice came through the speaker. "Otaheit Port Authority, this is Port Administrator Wynton. Identify yourself and state your intentions."

 

Even through the radio, the man’s voice was unsteady – kinda like the announcer back during the World Leadership Conference when they’d first shown up. Eh, it made sense. It was probably the guy’s first time seeing their ships.

 

The captain replied, "This is Captain Chandler, commanding officer of the USS America. We're approaching the harbor and requesting clearance and berthing procedures. ETA: 0940 hours."

 

Port Administrator Wynton responded, "Ah, Captain Chandler, welcome to Otaheit. We've been expecting you. Can you confirm your vessel's particulars, please? Length, beam, and draft?"

 

The captain consulted the data on his console. "Length is 257 meters, beam is 32 meters, and draft is 7.9 meters."

 

"Right then, Captain. Please be advised of draft restrictions for approach channels leading to Berth 3. The maximum allowable draft is 9 meters. The approach channel has been dredged to a depth of 12 meters."

 

Henson glanced at the navigator, who nodded along at the information. Man, it was a good thing the captain and navigator knew what they were doing, ‘cause parking a ship sure as hell wasn’t his forte. All he knew was the basic dialogue. 

 

“Roger that, Port Administrator.” The captain looked at the navigator for confirmation, then turned back to the radio. "Please provide the approach instructions."

 

The Port Administrator responded, “Follow the marked approach channel buoys on bearing 270, speed 5 knots. Be aware of a 2-knot current running east-west. There is a shallow shoal 500 yards off the pier, clearly marked by buoys. Depth is 12 meters, Captain. Clearance is 50 meters. We've got a tidal window of 2 hours, 15 minutes. You should have no issues, but we'll have divers on standby just in case."

 

At least Henson knew enough to recognize that the USS America would fit. The man himself said no issues, so might as well move on. "What's the security situation, Port Administrator?" the captain inquired.

 

"Captain, we have three security teams on site. Our EOD units, with bomb-sniffing dogs, have completed their sweep and cleared the area. We're maintaining vigilance, but everything looks good for your deployment."

 

"Roger, Port Administrator. We appreciate your efforts. Can you confirm our berthing schedule and dock allocation?"

 

"Captain, you'll be docking at 0940 hours, Berth 3. I'll send the berthing plan to your quartermaster. Anything you need, just let us know."

 

The captain leaned over the mic. "Roger that, Port Administrator. We'll see you at 0940 hours."

 

Henson took a seat as the conversation concluded. It was good to see the process run smoothly, even if he wasn’t the one steering the ship.

 

The ship slowly moved in after receiving clearance, following the pilot boat barely visible past the bow. Like molasses, the ship took damn near forever to actually slide in, but it eventually got there.

 

Outside, the Muan security personnel established a perimeter around the dock. They knew what they were doing, thankfully. Or at least, they looked like they did. After a long ass journey, he'd be pissed if he had to deal with any headaches the moment they made landfall.

 

Henson watched as the last of the mooring lines were secured, the America now snug against the pier. Funny how their ship didn't look all that out of place anymore. Not with those floating Mercedes logos and golden elf boats around. Hell, in this mishmash of tech, the America might as well have been just another day at the office. He took one last drag of his cigar before stubbing it out. Time to get to work.

 

"Keene," he called out, "let's run through that checklist."

 

Keene appeared with a tablet. Standard stuff. Vehicles, comms, logistics. Check, check, check. Henson nodded along. This was just the start - an unfortunate revelation for his tired mind. They still needed to set up their command center and prep for rapid deployment to both the Malmund and Oster fronts before the Gra Valkans could break through.

 

Henson's eyes swept over Otaheit. Shit, for a second there he coulda been looking at Chicago or New York back in the '30s. Wait, no - maybe London? All that brick and smoke, factories churning away like the war depended on it. Which, hell, it probably did.

 

Wasn't Cartalpas, that was for damn sure. Nowhere near as grand or shiny. But there was something about Otaheit that tugged at him, like flipping through his grandpa's old photos. Antique automobiles - real beauts - right alongside horse carts and a handful of imported Fords and Dodges like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Funny how it all seemed so familiar and foreign at the same time. Like someone had taken a slice of home, twisted it just enough to make his brain itch, then sprinkled some magic shit on top for good measure. Runepolis this ain't, but damned if Otaheit didn't have its own kinda charm. Time traveler in his own hometown - that's what it felt like.

 

He checked his watch. Still a good while before he'd set foot on land himself. Plenty of time to oversee the initial offload, make sure everything was running smooth as silk. Or at least, as smooth as any Marine operation ever ran. First wave of Marines was already moving out, looking like ants from up here.

 

Henson rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble. Needed a shave. Maybe after he got settled in at their new command center. He glanced below, seeing as his resident hero barked orders. Baker, recently promoted after a string of operations in the far east against all kinds of demons, already doing what Captains do best – looking busy and important. At least someone was keeping those boots in line.

 

– –

 

Baker squinted at his clipboard, the neat columns of numbers starting to blur. Christ, how long had they been at this? He glanced up, watching another Stryker roll off the ship.

 

"Yo, Cap!" Nakamoto called out.

 

Baker looked up, watching his buddy weave through the crowd. "Tell me you've got good news."

 

"Eh, sorta. Third platoon's squared away, but we're short two crates of 40 mike-mike for Second."

 

Baker frowned. "The hell? I thought we had that shit accounted for."

 

Nakamoto scratched his head. "Yeah, about that. De Giorgi swears we had everything on the America, but..."

 

"But what?"

 

"Well, I was thinking. You remember that clusterfuck with the resupply schedules back in Okinawa?"

 

Okinawa? Now that was a name Baker hadn’t heard in a while. But why it popped up here, he could already begin to guess. He groaned. "What, from before the Transference?"

 

The look on Nakamoto’s face all but confirmed his little theory. "Yeah, turns out it might still be on the Green Bay or the New Orleans. I've got Ramirez checking now."

 

"Christ," Baker muttered. "Alright, keep on it. Last thing we need is to start this shit show short on grenades."

 

"Forreal. Want me to head back up?"

 

Baker nodded. "Nah, check with Ramirez first. Might save us a trip."

 

"Aight," Nakamoto said, pulling out his radio.

 

As Nakamoto called Ramirez, Baker turned his attention back to the clipboard. Looks like they had about 70% of everything accounted for thus far. After a moment, Nakamoto lowered the radio.

 

"Ramirez is still looking. Says he'll get back to us in a few."

 

Baker grunted in acknowledgment. "Eh, I guess we'll find it eventually when the ships fully unload."

 

"Mhmm," Nakamoto said, leaning against a nearby crate, "Man, can't believe we're back to this shit. I miss Esperanto."

 

They watched the organized chaos of the dock for a moment. Another Stryker rolled by, a Marine hanging off the side, whooping like he was on a joyride.

 

Baker raised an eyebrow. "Miss what? The demons? The car chase? That dragon, what was it…?"

 

“Aji Dhaka?” Nakamoto offered.

 

He definitely didn’t know if that was the right name or not, but it sure sounded like it. “Uh, sure.”

 

"C'mon, don't act like you didn't have fun," Nakamoto grinned. "Remember when we called in that air strike on wannabe Ghidorah?"

 

A slow smile spread across Baker's face. "Fuck me, that was something else. Best fireworks show I've ever seen."

 

"Right?" Nakamoto's eyes lit up. "And that goblin horde? It was like, what, a hundred to one?"

 

"At least," Baker nodded. "Felt like I was in Lord of the Rings or some shit."

 

Nakamoto tilted his head, smirking. "Fucked up? Bro, you were smiling damn near the entire time! Hell, I sure as shit was. And everyone else. Tom Cruisin' a car chase under a Kaiju. Man!"

 

"Good times," Baker sighed. "Yeah, you’re right. I sure do miss that. Sure as hell beats whatever we're doing now."

 

"Ayup. Who knew inventory could be so boring after all that?" Nakamoto couldn't be more sarcastic.

 

Baker gestured at the cityscape behind them. "At least the view's uhh... interesting. Check that out."

 

Nakamoto looked up toward the Otaheit skyline, dotted with a mix of old European, early NYC with its own version of the Empire State Building, and some other stuff he couldn’t really tell. "Yeah, I know, right? Like, okay, I’d probably think I time-traveled here, but that?" He pointed to a retro sci-fi looking building.

 

"Tell me about it," Baker agreed. “Maybe they were tryna copy the Mirishials? Either way, I somehow thought they were kidding about Mu."

 

Nakamoto gave a disbelieving chuckle. "What, after seeing Cartalpas? Shit, after Esperanto and Topa and Calamique?"

 

The man did have a point. Even Baker couldn't guess why he thought they'd been kidding about Mu. "Yup. Somehow. Had to see it to believe it, even after all that."

 

He was about to add something else when Nakamoto’s radio stopped him. It crackled with Ramirez’s voice, “Finally got it. We’ve got all the equipment offloaded now.”

 

“Copy that, Ramirez,” Baker responded. “Form up on the road. We’re moving out in five.” He tilted his head over toward the road, walking alongside Nakamoto.

 

Baker and Nakamoto approached the convoy. Their ride to the complex awaited, already fueled and crewed.

 

"Ay, De Giorgi!" Baker called out, striding over to him.

 

"All present and accounted for, sir," De Giorgi replied, handing Baker the attendance and inventory sheet. "Everyone and everything’s accounted for. We’re ready to go."

 

Baker scanned the list, his eyes moving quickly down the rows of names and equipment. "Good, good. Any issues with the comms or the nav systems?"

 

"Negative, sir," De Giorgi said. "Everything’s so far so good."

 

Baker nodded. With the final checks complete, he gave the order to move out.

 

The convoy rumbled through the port's perimeter, guided by a Muan truck. Rows of warehouses and cargo containers stared back at them. Thankfully, stare back was all they did. Action was great, but he knew just how awful it was to be on the receiving end of a terrorist ambush.

 

The short ride was uneventful, though they did seem to be almost a good hour ahead of schedule. Their destination soon came into view. He took in the command center as the tires squealed to a halt. The concrete slab wasn't pretty, but at least the Muans had done the courtesy of building something new instead of repurposing an old warehouse. He stepped out, groaning as he stretched his arms and back.

 

His men had already begun unloading, starting with the pallets for the Second – the crates of 40 mike-mike they’d nearly lost earlier. Good. Wouldn’t wanna lose that again.

 

Baker nodded to Nakamoto. “Let’s get inside.”

 

And so the setup began. They’d already received a layout of the place from the Muans, but a lot of the guys seemed to have slacked off in really internalizing it, probably thinking they could get away with relying on the signs. That alone slowed them down quite a bit, even with something as basic as moving supplies from the convoy to the rooms inside.

 

Individually, the tasks weren't tough, but man did they add up. Especially when it came to stuff the Muans couldn't set up, like the cables and routers. At least the place had electricity, though, which meant working lights and AC the moment they stepped inside. Baker couldn’t really complain too much.

 

That task fell instead to the team working in the garage, which was a bit too small to accommodate all of the toys they’d brought with them. Not that it needed to, apparently. 

 

“Baker! Captain Baker,” Colonel Henson’s voice boomed as he entered the command center.

 

The man’s swagger was as bold as the puffs from his cigar. Of course, the reason why the garage didn’t need to accommodate the vehicles just so happened to be the same reason why Baker sometimes hated this job. 

 

“Hope you’re not getting too cozy, Captain. Your timetable just got pushed up. You’re leaving tomorrow to set up a secondary FOB in Lorneau, smack dab in the Malmund Mountains.”