"Can anybody hear me? Please respond. This is Ferret. Castle please respond. Jester do you copy?" His voice was calm, even though he was in dire straights. He desperately called for help into a radio that showed clear signs of damage. He got nothing but the indifferent voice of static in response. "This is Ferret, putting out a general call on all secured channels from Tiran. Somebody, anybody, please respond!" His calm voice was starting to crack into panic. He had been at this for hours, trying desperately to get a response.
He was all that was left and he knew it.
For the past six months he had been part of the garrison protecting the island of Tiran from invasion. Early on, the fleet stationed there had left port to meet the Union at sea. They didn't return. He had no idea what had happened to them, but if the lone destroyer who limped back to port was any indication, they had been annihilated.
They were left with only an aging battleship and three old cruisers to protect their waters.
Their airfield had been struck early in the morning on the outbreak of the war, and although the majority of the fleet was at sea on an exercise at the time, a few battleships and cruisers that were being retrofitted were sunk by the attack. On that day they had lost a third of their firepower and thousands of men. They were lucky that they avoided the civilian ships, allowing the few remaining non-combatants on the island to leave. They may have been at war, but it was clear they weren't monsters.
"Church, please respond. Salmon, please respond." At this point he was throwing out callsigns of various patrol and transport ships he had been in contact with in the past.
The six months following the initial airstrike could only be described as hell.
Almost daily airstrikes meant that the few roads they had were never in operation. The few fighters that were saved from destruction were shot down by the end of the first month. Almost constant bombardment quickly destroyed their few defensive fortifications, and made it hard to sleep even when they were stationed up one of the mountains.
The only solace they ever had was on those peaks. The surface and air radars gave them warning when an enemy strike was inbound. They went unnoticed until the third month, when they were promptly torn apart by an air raid.
"Anyone. Please. Respond."
He was in tears now. It wouldn't be long until they got to him. They landed a month ago, sealing the fate of those on the island. By now they had learned that a massive storm had been cutting off their ally's navy from reaching them. They had managed to hold on and fight back where and when they could. The remaining few collapsed the side of one of the harbor's entrances, trapping a few warships and transport ships inside and cutting off an easy resupply for the enemy.
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A voice! It was faint and still not clear due to the static, but it was definitely a response.
"Yes! It's fuzzy, but I can pick you up. Please release a tuning frequency."
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The pitch of the radio changed as he turned a dial to get to a certain pitch. Trying to match the noise the calibrator was making to the pitch that was being transferred. A recent storm had damaged the radio, so its range and clarity had been greatly affected.
"Savior, this is Ferret. Frequency tuned. Copycat?"
"Ferret, this is the HFS Battleship Scripture. We hear you loud and clear. How copy."
"Confirmed signal received." This was the first time in 2 days he had heard someone's voice. apart from the time he wad been asleep he had been glued to the radio. Desperately trying to get information out. "Emergency level 5. Dropping radio decency." Radio decency referred to coded language. He had no time to translate so he immediately switched to standard speech.
"My name is Ranger Montint Roguess, nickname "Monty", Birthdate one, one, eighty-two, serial number 0949200, combat promotion second private." He first gave some identification in order for high command to confirm that it really was him making this call.
"Hold cell Monty, recording for base, repeat in 5." The radio operator had him hold on for five second while they set up a record for HQ. "Unhold."
Monty once again stated his identification information.
-----
First lieutenant Welkin Forbes was the radio operator onboard the HFS Scripture.
The radio operator position onboard a battleship during wartime was very, very, boring. Yet it was easily the most important.
They had to maintain radio silence to hide their position, but they could still receive. His job involved monitoring radio traffic from HQ and listening for SOS calls.
It was on the rather boring and dull morning of June 7th, 1500 on their way towards one of the Republic's northern ports for resupply that he picked up a faint distress call on a secured channel. At first he brushed it off as just him being tired, but as they moved the signal got clearer. He got his superior into the room, the captain himself, to listen in on the signal. Eventually they were able to make out callsigns. Castle, Salmon, Jester, Church.
They could hear the distress in the young man's voice, but they had no idea where he was. They didn't want to fall into a trap either. Their eyes nearly popped out of their skulls when they heard 'Ferret' mention Tiran. They had lost contact with Tiran almost two months ago now. Everyone assumed it had fallen.
The captain had Forbes break radio silence and alert the Admiral, who told them to investigate. They were part of a detached force serving as bait anyway. The main fleet would be hot on their heels. They needed information on Tiran.
It took them almost an hour at full speed to get into a range where they received a response. That was a speed close to 35 knots.
When he released a frequency tuner, Forbes had already turned on the recorder. It was the captain who paused him, taking the time to connect the radio to the onboard announcement system. For some reason, after hearing the relief in Monty's voice, he felt that his crew needed to hear whatever he was going to say.
-----
It was almost noon onboard the Scripture when Chief Gunnery Captain returned to his station managing the three triple 400mm gun turrets of the fast battleship. Upon his entrance, the screech of the onboard announcement system started up.
Immediately, everyone on the ship instinctually went to battle stations. That sound was never accompanied by good news.
But it was to their surprise that it was not the voice of the captain, but the young and noticeably panicked voice of a boy likely only in his teens. Their faces immediately sank. They knew that they were picking up a distress call, and their captain wanted them to bear witness to this event.
-----
"My name is Ranger Montint Roguess, nickname "Monty", Birthdate one, one, eighty-two, serial number 0949200, combat promotion second private. I hold station on the Island of Tiran. I am putting out a distress signal to relay the information I have been entrusted."
"As far as I know, I am the only remaining resistance on the island. I have no food. I have no water. I am injured. I have sustained multiple injuries. I have only a handgun and seven bullets left. I have no hope for survival. After I give the signal please bombard my position. Sensitive information must be destroyed. I am located on the Eastern-most summit of Pleasant Point. I repeat, when I give the signal or stop transmitting, bombard my position. I repeat, hope is lost."
-----
"Get on it boys. Don't let his sacrifice be in vain." The gunnery officer started ordering his ranging officers to get a lock on that position. They may still be outside of their range, but they could use the time in their advance to do a few ranging shots and calibrate the atmospheric conditions.
Several salvos rang out as the Scripture's cannons sang a tune of destruction. The cruisers to her bow and stern used their ranging equipment in tandem with the Scripture's own to give a more accurate value. Every 30 seconds she would spit out 21 tons of high explosive ordinance at different ranges, collecting information to ensure they were on target.
-----
Monty spent the next 15 minutes delivering the precise co-ordinates of suspected enemy ammo and supply dumps, where their encampments and fortifications were, where the enemy ships were moored in the harbor, where the original headquarters was, and the precise location of his radio set. He described what he knew of the fleet they had, roughly how many aircraft would attack them day by day, and his suspicions on where the primary surface fleet was located.
By the end of it, his voice was hoarse.
-----
The crew in the ranging and plotting department did not waste a moment. Every single co-ordinate was written down and noted by elevation. Even the locations he was not sure of or declared old and unverifiable were dutifully recorded.
They would make absolutely certain that everything within a city block of these numbers would be nothing but ash.
-----
"That is all I have for you." Monty went silent for a few moments before asking. "How long til you get here?"
"Ten minutes until we are in range. Are you sure you can't swim out for rescue? Our map shows you close to the shore." Forbes didn't want this kid only 18 years old to be a casualty."
"To tell you the truth sir I'd love nothing more than to swim to wherever you can pick me up, but between me and that shore is a 350 foot sheer cliff drop onto jagged rocks. Even if there wasn't, I wouldn't be able to reach it anyway. The bones in my left foot are shattered and the tendons in my left knee were cut by shrapnel. My CO propped me here before he left to hold the line 3 days ago and I haven't heard from anyone since. I cannot use it and I am positive that it is infected, but I can't be sure. The only place I know there isn't any enemies is right here. The last gunshot I heard was 4 hours ago. This is it. I have no retreat and I cannot surrender. I have no hope left to live. I have resolved myself to die on the same ground as my brothers."
The entire ship went silent after this. They couldn't imagine the pain he was in. As much as they wanted to save him, they had no way to. He was right.
There was no hope for him.
"... Do you think you could play me some music? I would like to talk with a pastor as well. There is something I want to hear one last time before I die."
"Sure, do you have a preference for music?" He switched off his mic as he called for the pastor.
"Not really. Though if you have it, could you play 'The Waltz of the Dandelion'? It was my adopted father's favorite. If I could be so bold to ask you leave a few by his grave for me as a parting gift I'd appreciate it."
The Scripture had a few records of music that they played for the crew on holidays. 'The Waltz of the Dandelion' was an obscure orchestral arrangement, but they had it. One of the other operators in the room put it on for him, it's sad and mellow tone seemed too perfect for the situation. Some men on board broke into tears.
Then a new voice entered, belonging to a man in his 50's. "My name is Father Andrew. What is it you wish for my son?"
"Funeral rights obviously. But not for me. For the men who died to protect me. I will be satisfied with hearing my favorite passage. Can you please recite to me the Scripture of Vengeance?"