Summary: The year is 4E 205. Tensions have flared up once again between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire, inciting the beginning of the second Great War. While their armies move to clash in the mainland, their navies set sail to wrest control of the seas from each other. But when an ambitious mage's experimental spell to help the Imperial Navy secure victory at sea doesn't work as intended, the unthinkable happens: the errant spell deposits right before the dispatched Imperial fleet an armada from another time and another world, similarly embroiled in its own global conflict — the American invasion force of Peleliu, 1944.

...

ABECEAN SEA
IMPERIAL COMBINED FLEET
0800 HOURS
15 OF HEARTHFIRE 4E 205

Standing upon the deck of his flagship, Admiral Marcus Atilius Regulus looked up at the blue expanse overhead. His promise of good sailing weather lay in the few small clouds he could just see that floated lazily along, carried by a swift wind that also tugged at his light blue cloak and played with the salt-and-pepper hair on his head, bereft of his usual crested helmet. The 45 year old Admiral breathed in the warm tropical sea air, listening as somewhere behind him, his sailors sang a lively sea shanty about the wonders of women across Tamriel as they checked the rigging on their vessel's sails and mast. Nothing in the lively atmosphere suggested that just a few months ago, the Second Great War began when the Aldmeri Dominion declared war on the Tamrielic Empire once again.

Admiral Regulus wondered, grimly, how many of his men would still be with him and singing by the end of the day. There simply was no telling, given the nature of their combat mission: destroy the Dominion fleet out of Firsthold that sought to capture the Imperial docks and destroy the fleet stationed at Stirk Island, off the western coast of Cyrodiil, or recapture the docks and establish a beachhead to retake the island. Stirk Island was to be the staging point for their assault on Anvil, which had been taken by Dominion forces out of Valenwood in a savage blitz during the first month of the war.

The Imperial dropped his gaze to look around him, at the large fleet sailing with him a few hundred miles southeast of Stros M'kai. One hundred and twenty Imperial vessels sliced through the calm, dark sea, white sails billowing outward as the wind propelled them: galleasses with naval artillery for long range strikes, dromonds carrying Imperial Marines for boarding operations, and several huge galleons, including Regulus' own flagship: a 300 foot-long, 2000-ton galleon called the Leviathan. One of the largest galleons at sea, she was a titan amongst titans, and she bristled with deck-mounted arcane ballistae and a heavy naval trebuchet. A regiment of Imperial Battlemages added to her firepower, and a soul gem-powered arcane shielding system protected the hull.

All the ships that made up his Imperial Combined Fleet had initially set sail from varying ports around High Rock, with the hope of gathering as much seapower they could spare in a port near Daggerfall before setting off to fight their enemy, only stopping to replenish their supplies at the port in Stros M'kai before continuing along their southeastern heading.

Despite the fact that he had such a powerful fleet at his disposal, Admiral Regulus knew that the coming battle at sea would only be won by skill, both of commanders and of crew, and the Dominion's navy was something to be feared. It was one of the most powerful ones in Tamriel. If his fleet came out victorious, there might not be much of it left floating.

"Admiral Regulus?"

He blinked once, before turning to regard the High Elf who had spoken. "Lieutenant Volanare," the Imperial greeted with a head bow, finding himself needing to look up slightly to meet the mer's eyes. Trechtus Volanare was as tall as any of his kind and as skilled as their reputation went, but without the disdain and hatred of anyone who wasn't an Altmer. He could still be as conceited a mer as any at times, but he made up for it with charm and good humor. The Admiral was glad that to call the elf his friend, even if it his kind were threatening to destroy the Empire. He knew he could be trusted.

"Is it time for the ritual already?" the Admiral asked as the Altmer came up alongside him. He fancied he could see a wan, blue shimmer play across the surface of the elf's enchanted robes, like light glittering against the surface of a pool of water.

"It is," Trechtus affirmed with a nod. "The rest of my fellow mages should be going out onto the decks of their ships now. If our cloaked scouting ship's report is to be believed concerning our foe's location, then before the hour's out, our enemies at sea should be wasting away in another dimension for the rest of eternity, thanks to my spell."

"If it works," muttered the Admiral.

"You doubt my skill, Marcus?" asked the Altmer, giving him an arched brow. Despite his confident smile, it was a serious question.

"Not at all," the Admiral assured him. "I know you've spent a long time perfecting your spell, and I know how experienced you are in arcane matters. It's not you I'm worried about; it's everything else. The other battlemages working with you are not as experienced as you, and you even told me how much magicka it costs and how much skill it takes to use your spell. To say nothing of the fact that this spell of yours is experimental, and has never actually been used."

Trechtus' features went smooth. "I see your concerns. It's going to be a bit of a gamble, using this spell. But I think we'll see success. Even if they are Imperials and not Altmer, the men do have quite a lot of experience and skill for their age, they've had time to prepare themselves for this ritual, and they've certainly got the magicka pools to use it, if only just. The spell's effects will also have such a large range that we will in all likelihood catch our enemies in it — hard to miss with a two hundred nautical mile area of effect. I have confidence in us. Especially since I have this." He pulled out from his robes a small lockbox, gilded and encrusted with rubies.

Admiral Regulus took that in and gave the elf a slow nod, sparing the lockbox a wary look. He knew the exact contents of that lockbox, and it was dangerous. He only tolerated its presence on his ship for the purposes of this mission — the Dominion Navy had been sorely defeating the unprepared Imperial Navy in most sea engagements these past few months. The Empire was getting desperate to win this war. "Very well. I shall trust in your judgement, old friend."

Just then, he saw a bright light shining from the front deck of a galleass on their right. Then another one, on another galleon. And another, this one on a dromond to their left. Regulus watched as more mage light spells to both their sides lit up on the front decks of nine other ships, before turning back to Trechtus. "I believe it's time."

Trechtus nodded, his features hard and determined. The Altmer walked up ahead towards the ship's bow and cast his own mage light orb, brighter than the others, to signal that he was ready to begin. Admiral Regulus looked on silently, folding his arms over his chest. Everything seemed to have gone quiet in that moment, as if the world hushed to listen and watch what was about to transpire. Behind him, even the sailors had stopped halfway through singing their praises of Skyrim's lasses and their huge, Nordic breasts, to watch with intrigue as the mages began their ritual.

The High Elf used a spell to conjure a stand, and then reached into his robes with both hands and withdrew a colossal soul gem as big as an Orc's fist, glowing darkly with powerful energy. A low, rhythmic chanting reached Regulus' ear as Trechtus began to speak the words of the ritual spell in an ancient tongue. The Imperial knew nothing of the words Trechtus spoke, but he did know one thing: he could already feel the effects of the spell. A cold wind began to pick up, draining all warmth out of the tropical sea air in moments and leaving the hardy Admiral shivering and wishing he had a warm cloak with him.

After a few more moments of chanting, the soul gem in Trechtus' hands began to glow bright and blue, coruscating with energy. He noticed as a bright beam shot out of the soul gem's sides, lancing into the distance to strike at the soul gems being held by the other battlemages on each ship as they performed the same ritual. The beams of light began to connect with each other until they lit up like a gigantic chain of arcane energy. When the final soul gems had been connected to the giant link, Trechtus set his soul gem on the stand and quickly fished out his gilded lockbox, before unlocking it with a quick spell to reveal the artifact it contained — a sigil stone.

To this day, Admiral Regulus didn't know where or how the elf had gotten his hands on such a mighty artifact. Perhaps it was a relic from the Oblivion Crisis. He knew little about the things, except that they were immensely powerful objects of Daedric nature. This one looked like a polished orb of obsidian blackness, so dark that it drank in the light of Trechtus' light orb without throwing any of it back. A blood-red glow surrounded it, and if the Admiral concentrated, he fancied he could hear it humming with power.

Trechtus began speaking again, using a harsh language that sent a shiver down Regulus' spine from hearing it, and he just knew that he was speaking in Daedric. The Admiral and every other sailor on the deck watched in awe as the sigil stone began floating out of its box and rising several feet into the air. A breeze that must've come from the very depths of the Void swept across the ocean, suddenly chilling Regulus to his very bones as the gale blew across the deck, as cold as the grave.

The Imperial was so preoccupied with the unsettling feeling that he didn't notice the dark clouds forming overhead and the thick, red fog rolling across the sea's surface a kilometer ahead of their fleet until he heard the sailors behind him gasping in awe and fear. His eyes widened in shock when he finally witnessed his friend's spell. It was like a scene out of Oblivion itself. Indeed, if the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon had an ocean, it undoubtedly would have been choked with fog like this.

As Admiral Regulus watched the unholy arcane storm roil before him, he found himself clutching the amulet of Stendarr around his neck, hoping fervently that if there would be a price to pay for using Daedric power just to defeat the Dominion at sea, it would not be too great to pay.

...

PACIFIC OCEAN
PELELIU, PALAU ISLANDS
TASK FORCE 32
0540 HOURS
15 OF SEPTEMBER 1944

All was quiet on the deck of the USS Mount McKinley as Andrew Mitchell scanned the southwestern beaches of the island that lay before him and the American fleet: Peleliu.

The thirty year-old Lieutenant Commander studied the craters on the beach which were so deep that they exposed the bare, naked coral beneath the sand, and the vast swathes of splintered, ashen coconut groves that had been laid to waste from end to end of this side of the island by high explosives. Task Force 32 had been subjecting this tiny, 6-square-mile island to constant bombardment for the past two days, and they still had plenty of ammo to spare for their pre-invasion bombardment, which would take place in a few minutes. When dawn broke, it would be heralded by Peleliu's immolation as they engulfed it in a firestorm of coordinated preparation fire, only a couple of hours before the 1st Marine Division of the III Amphibious Corps finally landed.

"Those Japs aren't gonna know what hit them, eh?" asked the man standing next to him: Major General William Rupertus. "We'll have captured this miserable little island within four days."

"If you say so, sir," Andrew replied noncommittally, still scanning the coral ridges.

"What's the matter, Mitchell? Don't you trust in our ability to win this?" Rupertus asked, arching a brow at him.

Andrew lowered his binoculars and turned towards the man, saying, "I know we can win this. Definitely. But the Japs are crafty, and they don't go down easy."

"I know that," replied the USMC commander, giving him an easy smile. "But even the craftiest of foxes can't do much when he finds a sixteen-inch shell exploding in his foxhole. We'll take this island with minimal casualties."

Andrew just nodded, thinking back to the last two days of constant bombardment. "Probably," he conceded. "I doubt there's many enemies holding this place, after the pounding we've given them…"

He might have continued speaking, had it not been for the tingling sensation that suddenly swept throughout his entire body. Andrew shivered involuntarily, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. By the sudden jerk and stiffness of Rupertus, it was clear that he wasn't the only one who felt it. The two men looked at each other, but before either of them could speak they heard shouts coming from the Marines on the deck of their ship. Andrew and Rupertus looked off to the side, staring out at the sea behind them in awe, where there seemed to be a storm approaching them. If the frightening speed at which the skies darkened and the clouds began to roil wasn't enough to unsettle the men, then the distinctly unnatural red fog that followed it did the trick.

"Red fog? What the hell?" was all that Andrew could utter as his eyes took in the madness of the scene before him. He looked at Rupertus. The USCM commander had an astonished, wide-eyed look about him as he stared at the rapidly approaching fog.

"I don't like this," Rupertus muttered suddenly, stepping away from the gunwale. The man quickly turned towards a nearby sailor and barked at him, "Get to the bridge, now! We need to take evasive action against the fog! It might be a Japanese chemical attack! Everyone else, get below decks!"

While the sailor turned and ran for the helm and Rupertus continued shouting at the Marines around him to get to safety, Andrew found himself glued to his spot at the gunwale. The red fog was approaching too quickly; he knew there was no way they were going to be able to move out of the way before whatever it was reached them. What could it possibly be? Is this really a chemical attack of some sort? Could the Japanese really be behind this?

Looking up at the black clouds just overhead, looking like the onset of a terrible squall, Andrew would have laughed at his train of thought were he not so terrified of the distinctly unnatural fog that was just now beginning to roll over their entire battle group. It looked awfully close to something right out of a Lovecraftian horror story.

I must be crazy. The war must've gotten to my head, he thought, finally making for below decks, even as the USS Mount McKinley was enveloped in the hellish red fog. He caught the last glimpse of the darkened heavens above, which had been clear just moments earlier, before his vision was consumed with murky redness. There's no way that the Japanese could control the very weather itself. Only God can do that.

…

"Something's wrong."

Admiral Regulus jumped when Trechtus spoke suddenly. The Battlemage's eyes snapped open, and the sigil stone shattered in midair when his concentration broke. Trechtus didn't seem to even care that the fragments of his precious artifact were now falling into the ocean as he ran over to the nearest gunwale and stared out into the water.

"Trechtus, what's going on?" urged the Admiral as he came up beside him at the gunwales. "What's happened?"

"I don't know," the battlemage admitted, "but I felt it. Something went wrong with the spell."

"Meaning?" the Admiral pressed, staring out with concern at the red fog in the distance.

"Either the spell did absolutely nothing," responded the Altmer, before trailing off. After a few seconds of staring at the roiling fog, he finished with, "Or it did something completely unintended."

A blast of air hit them before either man could speak again. Admiral Regulus shut his eyes and shielded his face against it. Regulus froze, suddenly noticing something different. He took in a draft of air, scenting it. It smelled and felt like the tropics, warm and humid; but something was very wrong about it — clinging to it was the stink of smoke and ash, oil and bellows fire. It smelled like an entire realm bathed in flame and built of forged metal.

He saw figures in the fog, little more than murky shadows lurking behind the impenetrable screen — but even the fog could not conceal the sheer size of the things. Admiral Regulus and Lieutenant Volanare watched with mounting dread as those massive shapes became more defined figures amongst the swirling red sea. Lines sharpened, and details became clearer, until the front of the first figure parted the red veil, making way for the rest of the body.

When the entire figure finally came into clear view, Admiral Regulus' brows slowly drew together in confusion and outrage. His mind balked, insulted by the sheer madness of the vision presented to him. For several long seconds he couldn't quite process what he was seeing.

"Admiral," Trechtus croaked, watching as more of the massive vessels slowly exited the thick fog, "what are those?"

"Ships," Regulus finally managed to say, finding it difficult to summon his voice. Some part of his mind registered those squat, iron-colored, blocky-looking vessels as ships, at least. There were six now that he could see: five larger ships, and a smaller one that stayed at their rear. Somehow, he instinctively knew they were vessels of war — every sharp line and abrupt angle of its figure radiated with malice and threatened violence.

"Are they… Dominion ships?" asked the paling Altmer.

These were not ships of the Dominion navy, Regulus thought; their hulls were not armored with malachite plating. Pillars of smoke rose from chimneys amidships, like the exhaust of a Dwemer automaton. He could see none of the Dominion navy's infamous mini trebuchets, infamous for sinking Imperial ships by raining pure aetheric fire upon them, mounted anywhere on the decks. The masts he could see on the ships lacked any sail — which was not to say that he believed wind power alone could propel such massive vessels. By the Gods, each of the iron-plated hulks sitting out there in the water like weaponized islands must've been twice the length of the Leviathan, and twice again as heavy. The Dominion Navy never used ships like these… did they?

Admiral Regulus brought up his spyglass to his eye and studied one of the ships. It was mostly bare of markings, save for those painted onto the side — CL-55 — but he could see a few banners flapping in the wind on its mast. The Admiral focused on the flags, but the colorful banners told him nothing. At least, not until he focused on a red one flapping on a taut line. When he saw the device emblazoned in the center, Regulus' blood ran cold.

It was a bronze eagle, its wings splayed horizontally, perched atop a globe and what appeared to be an anchor, its arms and flukes in perspective. Only one nation in Tamriel used an eagle for its sigil: the Aldmeri Dominion.

"They have a banner bearing an eagle," Admiral Regulus croaked, finding his hands shaking as he lowered the spyglass. He turned to his Lieutenant, who had gone slack-jawed in shock. "They must be Dominion ships. Your spell must have teleported them towards us, instead of away."

The pair of them stared out at the ships for several long, hard seconds, before the Admiral's features hardened with determination. Marcus Atilius Regulus was not a meek man. He was a warrior, and if he were meant to fight an enemy with ships that dwarfed his largest galleon, then he would fight them — and if he died, he would die like a warrior of the Empire, defending it to the very end.

"Everyone to battle stations!" roared the Admiral, turning towards the sailors, feeling fire and vitriol begin coursing through his veins. "Send the order for all units of the fleet to attack! We have the enemy on our front porch, and now we are going to make them bleed!"

…

"I can't believe it," Rupertus uttered, staring out from the Mount McKinley's bridge with his binoculars. "Wooden sail ships? The Japs are using wooden ships?"

"I don't think they're Japs, sir," Andrew commented shakily, looking out at them. "This looks like something out of the Dark Ages. Or Roman, with the figureheads on some of them."

"What do you think, Jiggs?" Rupertus asked, turning towards the man standing next to him: Commanding General Roy "Jiggs" Geiger. His hair was white, and his skin was beginning to sag under his eyes, but the 58-year-old commander was as tough-faced as he'd ever been during his forty-plus years of military service.

"You're right. These can't be Japs," murmured the General, evidently just as confused about everything as they were, but nonetheless remaining levelheaded as always. He brought the binoculars around his neck up to his eyes. "No, I know these bastards too well. Tojo would never stoop so low as to fight us at sea with… dinghies like these. They don't even have guns! All I see are…"

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Are those… catapults? And ballistas?"

Andrew squinted out into the distance. Despite lacking his own pair of binoculars, he could see that these ancient-looking ships had weapons to match: catapult mechanisms and what looked like ballistae. He remembered reading about them back in his old officer training school days when he'd enlisted for the navy.

"Whoever these people are, they seem scared," Geiger suddenly commented. "I see 'em running around on their decks. We must've surprised them pretty badly with our sudden appearance."

"They're not the only ones feeling that way," snorted Rupertus, albeit uneasily. He glanced out of the window again. "Where the hell is Peleliu? An island doesn't just up and vanish like some—"

The explosion that rocked the deck of one of their light cruisers, the Cleveland, cut him off. All four men whipped their heads around, gaping at the sight of the fires now burning on the starboard side of the Cleveland's bow.

"What the hell was that?" Rupertus shouted.

"I-I think that was… a fireball, sir," Andrew responded, realizing just how insane the notion was as the words left his mouth.

The other men all glared at him, their brows furrowing deeply. Rupertus looked like he was about to reprimand him, but he didn't get the chance to speak as the entire wooden fleet before them suddenly opened up with everything they had.

Fireballs, ballista bolts, catapult stones, and even lightning flew out from the decks of multiple wooden ships as they concentrated all their fire on the Cleveland and her fellow cruisers. The cruiser's bridge windows were blown out by the concussion blasts, and several deck crew were blown sky-high by the explosions. Under the weight of the enemy fusillade, the Clevelandrocked slightly to port with a wounded groan.

"They're firing at us!" Andrew exclaimed, shocked. He also noticed that the entire ancient armada was sailing towardsthem in what appeared to be the opening stages of a wide-reaching enveloping maneuver. The were doing it with an unnerving level of synchronization, too, for a force that probably didn't even have a radio system to dispatch fleet-wide orders.

"Why would they? We haven't done anything to them!" Rupertus exclaimed, looking as much furious as he did astonished now.

"I don't know, and I don't care," Geiger snarled vehemently. "We're going to fight back. We'll ask questions later."

The General turned to the shocked radio operator on the bridge. "Operator, tell the Rear Admiral to make his cruisers open fire! Those sail ships are hostile!"

…

Rear Admiral Jesse Oldendorf had been standing on the bridge of the heavy cruiser Portland when he saw the Clevelandtake a reeling from the utter shock of the enemy fleet's audacious — and unexpected — attack, he failed to give the order to fire back before a fireball exploded against his flagship's hull. The explosion shattered the bridge window and threw him to the ground. He felt blood drops crawling down his face while he recovered on the floor, but a cursory examination once he'd regained his wits revealed that he'd escaped with little more than a few small scratches from glass shards, as had the rest of the bridge crew.

But the barrage didn't stop. The enemy's thunderous salvo of projectiles hammered against the Portland'shull like raindrops in a Pacific squall, with enough force to slightly rock the heavy cruiser — all 10,000 tons of her.

Oldendorf had had enough. The moment he regained his footing, the Rear Admiral shakily shouted at the radio operator, "What are you waiting for?! Tell the gun crews to open fire!"

Once the operator had scrambled back into his seat in spite of the cruiser's ominous rocking, Oldendorf's order was repeated to the crews manning the Portland'sgun batteries. Crew rushed to battle stations, shells were loaded, and guns were aimed. Moments later, the cruiser opened up with everything she had.

First came her main batteries, 8-inch cannons roaring as each gun mount sent three, 260-pound high explosive shells downrange. An eruption of dirty orange blossoms tore apart three enemy ships within the same heartbeat. The 5-inch secondary gun batteries followed, belching flame and smoke from their barrels as they ripped into the closest wooden ships firing at them. A moment later, the industrial jackhammering of .50 cal machine guns joined them once their crews had managed to depress the gun barrels enough to train them on the enemy ships. Bright lines of tracer fire lit up the seas as the bullets speared into the wooden hulls of their foes and set them aflame, or raked across exposed wooden decks and ground enemy crew into little more than red mist.

Oldendorf watched with grim satisfaction as his five cruisers each began opening fire as well, until every one of them pulsed with flame from stem to stern, unleashing their entire batteries at the enemy fleet. Geysers erupted with each shot, and one by one the wooden ships were sunk under the massed firepower. Now calmer and taking less fire, the Rear Admiral spoke up. "Operator, tell the cruisers to get into a battle line, ASAP."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Moments later, Oldendorf felt the Portland's deck shift under his feet as it maneuvered with the other ships into a firing line at sea. He was unnerved to see fire and lightningshooting out from the ancient ships, but it was offset by the sight of them sinking as easily as wooden ships should, when hit with high explosive shells by cruisers in an organized battle line.

"These jumped-up wooden shoe boxes don't stand a chance," commented the Rear Admiral, glancing around at the faces of his bridge crew. A few smiles greeted him, both grim and uneasy, and the Admiral found his smile falter. We may be able to defeat these enemies, but that doesn't explain who they are or why they attacked us.

Jesse Oldendorf shook his head, feeling every bit of his 57 years of age. First that red fog rolls in, then Peleliu's gone, and it looks like it's broad daylight instead of predawn… Nothing feels right. Something is very wrong.

The deafening roar of the Cleveland exploding derailed his train of thought.

…

"Keep firing! Give them everything you've got!" Admiral Regulus shouted to the Imperial Battlemages on the deck firing at the enemy ships. His voice was nearly drowned by the deep, flat whump of the Leviathan's naval trebuchet unleashing a 300-pound stone at the closest of the enemy warships.

The massive stone descended along its parabolic arc until it landed amidships of its target's hull, only for it to shatter and bounce off the smooth metal armor. In return, the ship fired back. An impossibly deep and loud boom echoed out across the ocean surface, accompanied by a belch of flame from one of the squat, turret-like metal projections at the front of the closest ship. Admiral Regulus fancied he could see the glint of metal projectiles in flight moments before a massive explosion blew one of his ships apart in a shower of wooden shards.

Regulus growled his frustration as he watched the remains of the obliterated galleass fall into the water like flaming confetti at a New Life festival. Not only were these ships shrugging off his navy's combined fire, but also they were destroying each of his ships with a single, devastating blow!

"Powerful sorcery must be at work," the Imperial muttered. "They're cutting through our ships like a scythe through wheat! Trechtus, if you have any suggestions, I'm open to hearing them."

The Imperial turned towards the Altmer, who was staring at the scene of unparalleled destruction with an intense, thunderous scowl. Admiral Regulus' eyebrows rose, seeing the deep furrow of the mer's brows, the snarling curl of his lips, and the tightness of his clenched jaws. The look of sheer incandescent rage on the elf's face was the likes of which the Admiral had never seen in all his years of knowing him.

"I'm responsible for all this," the elf growled, his hazel eyes burning like live coals. An ardent, orange flame began glowing in his hands. As the Altmer spoke, it grew larger and hotter, up to the point that it was so hot it glowed white like the sun itself, aptly matching the battlemage's rising temper. "It was my spell that brought them here, so it is my fault that our men are dying like this — but I'll be damned if I'll let it be said that Trechtus Volanare did nothing to avenge them!"

Trechtus released a final, infuriated cry as he flung the overcharged arcane projectile at the enemy warship. Burning hotter than any natural flame possibly could, the fireball unerringly shot across the distance between it and its target in the span of a second before slamming into the flat side armor of the warship, towards the front of the hull. It melted through several inches of solid steel before it found the ammunition stores for the ship's cannons.

The 12,000 ton warship shuddered as its high explosive shells detonated from the inside. A massive conflagration engulfed most of its length, and the resulting blast boomed out across the surface of the water, sending red-hot metal shrapnel shooting through the air with the screech of tortured metal.

Trechtus gave a gasp and staggered forward onto the gunwale, panting heavily. Admiral Regulus was too busy staring in awe at the destroyed warship to immediately respond, but once he'd regained his wits he rushed over to his friend's side. "Trechtus! Are you all right?"

The Altmer was nearly bent double and panting heavily, his features flushed deep red from his exertions. "That fireball… took a lot out of me…"

Regulus stared back at the ship, whose burning, charred wreck was slowly sinking into the sea. "You killed it. If you can do it, then it proves that these things aren't indomitable!"

"But they're still powerful…" Trechtus grunted as he tried to regain his footing. He eventually managed to stand upright again, in spite of the Leviathan's rocking. The entire sea was churning and foaming from the violence of so many ships locked in brutal, deadly contest; it was as if they were fighting inside a typhoon. Trechtus opened his mouth as if to speak again, but the words seemed to die in his throat as his eyes flew wide open and his jaw quivered. The Battlemage pointed a trembling finger at the distant fog and croaked, "Admiral… the enemy has reinforcements."

Admiral Regulus whipped around in time to see more of those strange ships appearing from out of the red fog, which had yet to dissipate. Only the three largest ones seemed to have any considerable armament. Shortly after they'd exited the fog, their weapons came to life, belching flame and smoke. Geysers of seawater and foam erupted all around his fleet moments later.

Trechtus turned towards the Admiral again. "What do we do now?"

Admiral Regulus stared in shock for a few more moments, before allowing a cold, hard look of determination to crossed his features. "Get to the communications mage, and tell him to command all Marine Battlemages on our dromonds to engage cloaking spells, and try to close in for boarding operations. Galleasses and galleons continue raining fire to draw enemy attention. If we can't beat them in ship-to-ship, we'll beat them in close quarters."

…

The men in the Mount McKinley's helm watched in silent awe at the scorched wreck of the Cleveland. For a long while, none of the men could seem to find their voice, even as they exchanged looks of utter shock and awe. The fact that a fleet of ancient shipshad just sunk one of their own was too much to digest, it seemed.

Andrew finally regained enough of his wits to speak, but his voice came out stuttering. "W-we just lost the Cleveland…"

"How did they manage to blow up a modern warship?" Rupertus demanded, red-faced and infuriated. Andrew half expected to see steam coming out from the man's ears.

"Looked like a… ammo rack explosion," commented Geiger, his tone absent and his eyes still wide. "Maybe all the explosions heated up the ship enough to cause its shells to cook off?"

Before the men could respond, they heard the nearby radio operator speak up. "General, I'm picking up a transmission from battleship Mississippi."

Geiger rushed over to the radio and picked up the receiver. "This is Geiger, I read you loud and clear, Mississippi. Where have you been?"

"Navigating the red fog, sir," came the communications officer's reply. "We could see absolutely nothing for several minutes, but we're exiting the fog now."

"It's about time," Geiger muttered. "Listen to me: we have engaged an enemy fleet. The Cleveland's been sunk. Do you know the status of the other battleships?"

"I can only confirm that the Pennsylvania and the Maryland have been accounted for," came the operator's reply.

"Any word from the carriers?"

"No, sir."

"Alright, then. Exit the fog immediately, and then contribute your fire into the battle. You will be firing upon wooden sail ships. I repeat — you will be firing upon wooden ships. Do not hesitate to shoot. Understood?"

There was a lengthy pause at the other end of the line.

"Understood, General," came the operator's voice. "Mississippi out."

Geiger hung up the receiver and turned to the others. "Our battleships are with us, and they should be entering the fight soon. Haven't heard anything about our carriers, or from them. Not yet, anyways."

At last, the battleships finally emerged from the fog a few hundred meters to their port side. The booming thunder of heavy guns reached them as the battleships sent a volley of sixteen- and fourteen-inch shells at the ancient ships, sending water and ship parts flying. Their AA guns and secondary batteries opened up shortly after, sending bright streams of cannon fire in a hailstorm towards the enemy, ripping apart sails and masts or setting wooden hulls alight with incendiary rounds.

"We won't really need them," Rupertus commented as he looked out at the battleships engaging the enemy fleet. "They're being torn to shreds. At this rate, we'll have wiped out their entire force in less than half an ho—"

The USMC commander suddenly gave a backwards jolt, staggering away from the window with a gasp. "What in the hell?" Rupertus uttered, staring intensely out at the water for a few more moments before his head whipped towards the others. "Did you all see that? Am I going crazy, or did half of those enemy ships just…"

He gesticulated hopelessly with his hands, groping for words for a moment before finally sputtering, "Disappear?"

General Geiger's scowl couldn't have been deeper. Slowly, the man nodded in agreement. "If you're crazy, then I must be crazy, because I saw it happen too."

"So did I," Andrew remarked, his brows furrowed in confusion. "Could it have been some fancy trick of the light or something? I once saw a magician perform a disappearing act too, maybe what we saw was nothing more than smoke and mirrors too?"

"Smoke and mirrors? Really, Mitchell?" Rupertus grunted. "Smoke and mirrors can't make half of an entire fleet turn invisible."

Andrew finally peeled himself away from the window long enough to look each of the men in the eye in turn. "Sirs… exactly what force are we fighting? They use outdated ships and ancient weapons, yet they've just managed to make half of their ships vanish from sight..."

Nobody seemed to have an answer for him. At length, Rupertus frowned, and said, "I don't like this whole situation. Geiger, I think you should tell the fleet to be wary for…"

"Invisible ships?" General Geiger asked dryly, his lips quirking up with wry humor. He sobered up instantly. "You're right. If they can sink a ship like the Cleveland, then sailboat or no, they're probably a threat to our other ships too."

Geiger went over to the nearby radio and picked up the receiver. He first contacted the Portland. "Portland, this is General Geiger, over."

The operator picked up immediately. "This is Portland, over."

"Portland, let the Rear Admiral know that a large number of the enemy ships have managed to pull some sort of disappearing act on us. They just vanished; we can't see 'em. Be wary of a surprise attack."

There was a pause at the end of the line. "General, can I confirm that you've just told us to beware of attack by invisible—"

"Yes, invisible ships," Geiger confirmed. "Don't argue with me about it, just make sure you keep an eye out for them. They did sink the Cleveland after all."

A massive, leviathan groaning from the other side of the line cut off any possible response from the operator. Geiger's eyebrows drew together in a scowl. "Portland? What's going on, what was that noise?"

There was a lengthy pause from the operator, allowing Geiger to catch bits of shouts and cries of alarm from the other side, nearly drowned by the sound of Klaxons blaring. At last, the operator's voice returned, more frantic than before. "Portland has boarders, sir. I repeat: the enemy is boarding us. They came out of nowhere!"

…

Imperial Marine Gregory Beaufort would never get used to the experience of his entire ship being enveloped in a wide-reaching cloaking spell. The Breton found it difficult to maintain his balance with the deck continuously shifting beneath his feet and his comrades pressed close together around him. More than once he found himself needing to regain his footing and adjust his helmet as the dromond carrying him and his fellow Imperial Marines swerved to one side while heading directly towards the closest of the enemy's steel ships. They were just under a hundred meters away from their target now, and they'd yet to be blown out of the water. Did their foes not have any Detect Life spells to warn them?

"Get ready, troops! Boarding operations will commence soon!" roared the commander of the regiment on the ship: a massive Breton named Montagne. He couldn't see him from the invisibility spell, but he could imagine the surly man standing a few meters ahead of him at the front of the regiment, clad in his heavy plate armor, a thunderous scowl on his weathered face.

Gregory pushed the thoughts out of his head and focused on being ready to get into the action. He was so afraid of getting blown out of the water without warning by one of those devastating weapons mounted on the enemy ships, but he couldn't even look around to assure himself that he wasn't the only one that felt that way —his comrades were all invisible around him.

"You all right, Gregory?" a calm voice beside him asked, just loud enough to be audible over the sounds of armed conflict.

"I'm all right, Julius," the Breton replied, nodding, despite the fact that the Imperial couldn't see him do it. He'd nearly forgotten that he was there with him, as were the rest of his usual circle of friends.

"You'd better be," warned another voice to his side. Gregory recognized it as that of James. "It's much too late to be backing down now."

Another voice spoke up next: John. "Not like we'd be given a choice. If we tried to run, the enemy would pick us off. We'd be dead before we made it a hundred meters."

"Running is out of the question," James replied sharply. "Imperial Marines never run from a foe. Especially when the enemy they're fighting has killed so many of their comrades."

"No, they don't," agreed Julius, his tone hardening. "We would be failing our fellow Marines if we ran away and denied them their rightful vengeance. No, we're not going to let that happen. We're going to make our enemy pay."

The disembodied voice of their commander roared at them again. "Stand ready, Marines! Brace yourselves for boarding!"

Gregory looked ahead, where the prow of their dromond was coming within ten meters of the enemy ship's frontal deck. He shut his eyes and braced himself for impact, hearing Montagne roaring once more. "Steel thyselves, men!"

There was a thundering crash, and Gregory felt the mother of all kicks rock their ship as it rammed into the side of the enemy's frontal hull. The impact was powerful enough to throw several unsteady Marines to the deck. Meanwhile, the enemy ship didn't so much as rock on its axis — it was as if they had just rammed a mountainside. He heard several similar impacts in the distance as more invisible dromonds smashed into the side of the ship from port and starboard.

Moments after impact, the invisibility cloak on their ship was dispelled, and Gregory could suddenly see everything around him. He had no time to study anything before a sudden ripple of magic swept throughout the ranks, as one of their battlemages cast featherweight spells on them. Montagne, standing at the head of the regiment, pointed his broadsword at the front deck of the enemy ship. "Imperial Marines! Attack!"

His Marines answered him with their own war screams as they surged forth onto the deck on the enemy ship like floodwater bursting through a dam. Several Battlemages stayed back on the ship to unleash arcane fury upon the figures of the enemy crew manning the strange metal ballistae situated on the amidships deckhouses. After steeling himself, Gregory leapt onto the enemy deck with the aid of his featherweight spell, shouting, "For honor! For the Empire!"

The moment the Breton's armored boots hit the deck he set off running towards the closest non-Imperial Marine. Seeing his chosen foe's surprised, unprepared stance, Gregory shot forward, slashing at the junction of his head and neck. He barely felt the impact as his sword's honed steel edge decapitated his foe, leaving a stump of ragged muscle and bone splinters with twin fountains of blood spurting where his neck used to be.

Before the spurting corpse had even fallen, Gregory had already selected who would die next, and raced towards them. Tuning out all unnecessary sensations bombarding him from all sides, the Breton cut his opponents down without seeing their faces or hearing their screams, only knowing the feeling of his blade's impact against flesh and bone and the report of his shield as he smashed it into faces. But he wasn't deaf to his surroundings. He heard the enemy ships firing their weapons with a roar like a mountain cracking open; the encouraging shouts of his commanding officer; the metallic crunchas an Orc Marine with an axe smashed an enemy's skull into the deck with enough force to dent the metal.

As he fought, Gregory was also able to recognize his friends nearby by their distinctive combat styles; the powerful sword-and-shield strikes of Julius; the brutally efficient sword-and-dagger cuts from John; the fluid and graceful slashes from James' whirling longsword. Knowing they were nearby filled him with confidence as he engaged in his own butchery with sword and shield.

Then it was all suddenly over, and Gregory found himself standing alone on the deck, slickened with blood, offal, and bone splinters, panting from his exertions. Shaking his head lightly to clear it, the Breton looked around and saw that the Imperial Marines were charging below decks to finish off the remaining enemy crew. Still panting, the man's gaze drifted downward, and he ended up catching sight of one of the corpses he'd made. He stared at it for several seconds, before his eyebrows shot up in shock.

It was a human body, not a High Elf. Gregory would go so far as to say the man he'd killed even looked somewhat like an ethnic Imperial. He didn't wear any armor whatsoever, but instead a sort of drab gray-green combat dress that looked unlike anything Gregory had seen. There was no way it could protect its user against any physical blow, any more than his linen nightclothes could. Were these people not melee combatants, but strictly ship operators?

"Gregory!"

The Breton looked up to see his friends approaching. When he came near, John asked, "Are you well? Any injuries?"

"I'm fine," Gregory replied, nodding. He looked down at the body again. "Have you noticed who we're fighting?"

They all nodded grimly. "They're not elves," Julius remarked with a troubled look in his icy blue eyes, scratching his black beard, "but they're definitely not Imperial Navy. I've never seen uniforms like theirs."

James spoke up next, looking thoroughly spooked. "And their long weapons… they must be enchanted. I saw Jorgen's head burst apart like a melon when one pointed at him! Whatever it was, it punched right through his shield and left a hole through his helmet!"

Several long seconds of silence followed that remark. Eventually, John spoke up. "I don't like this — any of this. I was told we were going to be fighting the Dominion Navy. Now we're battling strange ships being manned by human soldiers with enchanted weapons? Who exactly are these people?"

"I don't think anybody knows the answer to that," Gregory admitted, "but we know one thing: they're our enemy, because we fired upon them first. No backing out of this fight now. We either win this and find out after the battle, or…"

He trailed off, knowing he didn't need to finish that sentence. Not that defeat was an option for Imperial Marines. Gregory looked at the human body once more. "Think maybe someone should report this? The Admiral might want to know that these aren't Altmer."

"I'll tell the communications mage on the ship," James volunteered, before turning and running off.

Gregory watched him go, before turning to the others. "Let's get going, then. There's still a fight that needs to be finished below decks, human foes or no."

…

"Move, Marines! We have boarders on the ship! Get locked and loaded and get your asses out there!" came the bellow of Captain George Hunt as the attack transport USS Ormsby's complement of Marines bustled into the armory to gear up and fight their attackers.

"Looks like Tojo's decided to fight back after all," Private Nicholas Miller grunted as he patted down his combat uniform, making sure he had all the equipment he'd managed to grab before he and the Marines had been rushed to the armory. Satisfied, he hefted his BAR and switched it to semi-automatic mode, taking comfort in the familiar weight of it in his hands. "So much for little resistance on Peleliu."

The Marine he addressed beside him, a member of his usual fire team, had light brown hair and still wore his favorite cap, having forgotten to grab a helmet in the excitement. On his combat uniform he wore a patch that read, Pvt. Kilgour.

"I'll say," Connor replied, chambering a round in his Thompson as he joined Nick in exiting the bustling armory. "They said we'd barely have to fire a shot, and now we're fighting off boarders on our own ship. The Japs gotta have serious guts to try and board us. I doubt a US Navy commander has ever even had to give the order to repel boarders since the War of 1812… Say, should we wait for Mark?"

"I'm right here," said another Marine as he jogged up towards them, patting his helmet on his head. An M1 Garand was clutched in his hand, with a bayonet attached. He was the tallest of the three, and the patch on his combat uniform read Pvt. Roylance. With a mock-serious tone he asked, "You two weren't actually thinking about leaving me behind, were you?"

"Wouldn't dream about it," Nick assured him. "Come on, let's go show Tojo not to mess with Marine Raiders."

The fire team rushed down the hall a few yards behind another pair of Marines ahead of them. They looked side to side down each hallway they passed, but they didn't spot any enemy boarders, just fleeing seamen and other crew. All three of them turned off the safeties on their weapons as they approached a corner at the end of the hall, where screams of combat echoed.

There was a metallic rattling of a Tommy gun up ahead, before the Marine wielding it came into view from around the corner, walking backwards. After another moment of wild firing, the Marine's weapon clicked empty. Before he could reload, a sword was thrust into the man's chest with enough force to staple him against the wall.

Nick scowled both in anger and in confusion at the man who held the blade as he tore it out. The fact that he was wearing armor wasn't the part that confused him most; he wasn't a history buff like Connor, but he just knew that the armor the man wore was certainly not Japanese — it had a Roman feel to it. The sword he clutched was certainly not a katana, either, but a medieval-looking one instead.

When the Roman — Nick lacked any other way to call him — took notice of them, his eyes narrowed. Two of his fellows, similarly armored, joined him at the corner, and their appearance prompted the first one to charge forth with a savage battle scream. His comrades surged forward just behind him, echoing his cries.

All three Marines snapped out of their trance and opened fire, backtracking as they did so. Nick and Mark leveled their rifles and fired at their upraised kite-shaped shields, while Connor fired a short, accurate burst at another with his Tommy gun. The rounds tore through the antiquated armor with ease, killing two of the wannabe Caesars instantly. Undaunted, the final soldier leapt over the bodies, slashing at Nick, shouting. "FOR THE EMPIRE!"

Mark darted forth to interpose himself between them. The Marine Raider raised his rifle to block, and then brought the stock around and smashed it into his foe's crested helm, making him stagger a few steps. He recovered quickly, and the two of them squared off briefly. Mark held his rifle like a spear, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he were in a boxing match, while his foe simply held his guard with sword and shield. Finally, the Roman sneered at his unarmored foe and darted forward with a cut.

But what the man didn't know was that Mark had already survived three different katana-charges from Japanese soldiers on three different occasions, by killing them. His underestimation would cost him his life.

Mark expertly moved into the sword strike, using his rifle to redirect the blow and move outside of his opponent's guard. Before his foe could turn around, the Marine rammed him with his shoulder to throw him off balance, grabbed his rifle like a spear and then raised it for an overhead thrust with his bayonet, aimed at the swordsman's throat. The Roman jerked when the 16-inch blade punched through his windpipe and scraped against his spine. Blood dripped down the bayonet, and when Mark tore it out, the swordsman toppled like a felled tree, gargling.

"What in the world?" Connor breathed when the body had twitched its last. He seemed to forget about the battle happening in their ship and kneeled before the corpse. "This is actual steel armor… Nobody in their right mind would use this in real combat. It's too heavy, and bullets can pierce it easily."

"I doubt these guys are in their right minds," Nick commented, studying the armor as well. "What would a bunch of Julius Caesar wannabes be doing out in the middle of the Pacific?"

"I dunno." Connor began rifling through the dead man's pockets. "This guy doesn't have any modern combat gear either. Look at this," he said, pulling out each item as he listed it. "Whetstones… flint and steel… a water skin… eh? What's this?"

The man pulled out what looked like a small vial filled with red liquid. Mark squinted at it. "Well, I know one thing: it ain't no Coke."

Connor squinted at the face of the bottle. "There's a label here, but I can't understand what it says. It looks Latin, but… it isn't."

"Really? But the guy earlier shouted something in English. 'For the Empire.' What's the point in using different languages for script and speech?"

Any possible response he might've had was severed when they heard heavy metal boots stomp around the corner. All three Marines turned as one, weapons raised, only to stare in shock and awe at the terrifying man in Romanesque armor that stood before them.

No. Whatever that beast was, it was not a man, even if it was shaped like one. It stood a whole head taller than the Marines, and it had huge muscles that bulged underneath its olive-green skin. A ponytail of silvery hair peeked out from behind its shoulder. The thing's dark visage was contorted into a malevolent scowl, and it bore strong resemblance to a bulldog — if not in its broad, flat features, then in its jutting chin that revealed two sharp, ivory-white tusks.

It unleashed a savage, wordless roar and hefted a ridiculously oversized mace before charging at the Marines. If they hadn't been so taken by shock, they might have screamed in terror. Instead, the three of them backtracked quickly and opened fire, prompting the beast to raise a solid steel shield in defense.

Connor's Thompson rattled, Mark's M1 rifle banged, and Nick's BAR roared with a flat and deafening gunk-gunk-gunkas they poured all their fire into the thing's upraised shield, but their bullets sparked and pinged off the advancing steel wall. It must've been at least three inches thick and weighed as much as a man, but the thing wielding it didn't seem to feel its weight as it bulled forward, ignoring their bullet storm.

Mark's rifle was first to run dry, with a metallic pingsound as the empty cartridge automatically ejected, and Connor's submachine gun was next to click empty. Both men frantically reached for fresh magazines, but they'd never reload in time given the rate of closure between them and the monster. Knowing he was almost running dry too, Nick frantically contemplated his options, before he quickly realized that the beast had left its legs exposed during its charge. He lowered his BAR and took aim with the few bullets left in his magazine.

One shot. Two shots. Three. There! A spurt of blood, a roar of pain, and the big green brute toppled forward, dropping his huge mace with a metallic bang to clutch at the hole in his leg made by the .30-caliber round. Connor finally reloaded his Tommy gun and depressed the trigger, sending a one-man bullet swarm at the prone figure. By the time his weapon clicked empty again, Connor was shaking and looking paler than usual. His target looked like the victim of a Mafia drive-by, riddled with bloody, leaking holes all over.

The three Marines stood their ground and reloaded, staring at the green man with mixed expressions of fear, shock, and awe, before turning those same looks upon each other. They didn't even try to maintain a veneer of confidence or fearlessness. Nobody seemed to know what to say for several long seconds.

"Jesus Christ," Nick finally muttered, pulling off his helmet to wipe a hand over his sweaty forehead. He stared at the huge corpse before them, and asked, "What the hell is that thing?"

Connor was the one who shakily answered him. "If I had to say… it looks like an Orc."

Nick gave him a blank look. "A what?"

"An Orc?" Mark asked, incredulous. "Like, a J.R.R. Tolkien, Middle EarthOrc?"

Connor gave him an abashed nod. "W-well, yeah! I mean… just look at it! Tusks, green skin, ugly mug only a mother could love… though I'd think that this guy here could've wiped the floor with any of Tolkien's Orcs."

Nick just glared at the other two Marines. Unlike them, he had never read J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. He'd been too caught up trying to sustain himself during the Depression when it had come out in 1937. Evidently, they hadn't. "I came here to shoot a couple of Nips threatening our American way of life, not… fantasy creatures," he said with a curl of his lip.

"Well whoever these people are, they're definitely not Japanese," Connor concluded with a wary look at the… Orc.

"Yeah. I figured," Mark remarked dryly, sparing the body another look. "So then why are we fighting them? What are these Roman-looking soldiers and… Orcs… doing in the middle of the Pacific?"

An uncomfortable pause stretched out between them. They stared at the body, then at each other, then at the body again.

"I don't think we're in the Pacific anymore," Nick whispered, barely audible.

The other two Marines glared at him accusingly, as if angry that he'd spoken the thought that they had been too afraid to acknowledge themselves. Their looks softened with concern after a few seconds, though. It was hard to avoid thinking about the possibility, especially with a non-human corpse lying just a few yards away. The sounds of bloody contest continued lurking in the background, the echoing bangs of rifles and tommy guns mixing with battle screams and the clashing of steel.

At last, Nick replaced his helmet and secured his chinstrap. "We can worry about this later. We've got to take care of the boarders on our ship."

The other Marine Raiders nodded their agreement, and they moved out without another word.

…

Admiral Regulus flinched when he felt the enemy projectile scream past the deck of the Leviathanto splash into the sea a few hundred meters astern. Under an hour ago he'd been in the center of his fleet, but now his ship was quickly becoming part of the front lines as the enemy fleet rolled over his forces, and now they were beginning to take hits in earnest. The arcane shielding on the Leviathan'shull had already stopped a few of their smaller, bright, fiery projectiles and some high velocity shrapnel, but when the enemy ships finally decided to focus fire on his galleon, the Admiral had little doubt that the Leviathanwould be crushed under the iron-shod heel of this implacable juggernaut they faced.

"We've nearly lost half our ships," Trechtus growled, casting a powerful bolt of lightning at an enemy ship. The Battlemage swore that they did more damage to these ships than the fireballs, and true to his word, he saw molten metal where his projectile had struck.

"But despite it all, we're hurting them," Admiral Regulus commented. Though the words were meant to be encouraging, they sounded hollow in his ears. "The ships that have been boarded are no longer firing at us. Probably being butchered as we speak. If our Imperial Marines can neutralize the crew on the ships they'd boarded, those who remain might be able to force another boarding and do the same."

He turned to Trechtus then, and asked, "Don't you know any spells to transmute iron? Perhaps they won't be able to float if suddenly their ships turned into silver or gold beneath their feet."

Trechtus paused from preparing another lightning bolt to shake his head. "Tried that. Didn't work. The metal in their hulls must be heavily alloyed, and the spell I know only works on unalloyed mineral ore."

Admiral Regulus merely grunted in response. He was heavily tempted to ask Trechtus if he could muster enough magicka for another fireball to kill another ship, but the Altmer looked to be on the verge of collapse from all the mental strain of continuous spell casting. Casting another spell like that might very well kill him.

An ensign ran out from below decks and halted before Regulus, saluting hastily. "Admiral! I have news from our boarding parties!" the lad exclaimed. "This enemy we're fighting — they're not the Dominion Navy! Our Marines report that the people manning the enemy's ships are all human!"

Admiral Regulus and Trechtus both gaped at the ensign. "Humans?" Trechtus sputtered. "Preposterous! There's no human navy in these seas that uses ships like these!"

The Admiral scowled, and then turned towards the Altmer. "Remember about the spell you used, Trechtus. You claimed that it would link Nirn to another dimension. Perhaps instead of bringing the Dominion fleet towards us… you brought anotherfleet into Nirn instead. One from anotherdimension."

Trechtus seemed to weigh the Admiral's words for a moment. As realization dawned, the Battlemage's eyes widened in shock. "By the Gods… I think you may be right, Admiral."

Regulus stared back out at this losing battle they were fighting. They were taking so many losses, all for an enemy they never had quarrel with. I ordered the attack on their ships. I'm the sole man responsible for the deaths of countless Imperial Navy sailors…

He shook away the guilt pangs that threatened to consume him. No time for that now, he had to make new plans for a full-out retreat. With the aid of invisibility spells and smokescreens, they'd be able to withdraw their Marines and run. If they were lucky, the enemy wouldn't pursue them and let them run. If not… with a stiff wind in her sails, the Leviathancould pull about 13 knots. From what he'd seen of this battle, the enemy ships could probably do twice that. But even if the Leviathanwas taken out, perhaps at least one of their ships might be able to slip away unnoticed…

Admiral Regulus was still contemplating his options when a distant buzzing reached him. He might not have noticed it at all had the sound not grown louder and louder, accompanied by a high, whining whistle that slowly grew with intensity, until it was painfully difficult to ignore. Both he and Trechtus looked around worriedly for the origin of the sound, but they saw nothing in the water aside from flotsam and sea foam.

Frantic, alarmed shouts from the seamen behind them forced both men to turn around. They were gesticulating and shouting, looking more afraid than he'd have ever expected of the normally fearless men. Admiral Regulus followed the pointing finger of a sailor up into the sky, but he only saw the sun. What's he pointing at? There's nothing there…

As he squinted into the harsh tropical sunlight, a group of dark, oddly shaped figures appeared in front of the sun, blocking its light. The Nordic brogue of one of his sailors suddenly rang loudly in his ears.

"DRAGON!"

Bright, snaking trails of fire erupted from the twinkling lights on the wings of the airborne figures. Out of instinct, Admiral Regulus threw himself to the deck, and Trechtus mimicked him. It might have been that instinct that saved their lives.

A deafening, staccato banging filled Admiral Regulus' ears a heartbeat later, making him clamp his hands over them and shut his eyes with a grimace. He was still able to hear the crunch of his flagship's deck splintering, the thundering crackof her masts snapping, the ripof her sails being shredded, and the agonized screams of his crew dying. Something warm splashed onto the Admiral's helmet. It wasn't seawater.

The buzzing roar and whistling shriek of the airborne foes seemed to pass just overhead, but still the Admiral did not stir. He lay there for several long seconds, perhaps even minutes, listening to the battle raging all around him at sea, before he felt safe enough to raise his head.

Everything was destroyed. Countless holes were ripped into the sails, the main mast had been felled like a tree, and the naval trebuchet was ablaze. Blood, offal, and bone shards littered the deck of the Leviathan. Nobody else stood; aside from him and Trechtus, not a single deck crewmember remained. There were too few bodies to account for the number of crew that had been out here with him moments ago, as well. Perhaps a few had made it below decks, but Regulus suspected that what was left of most of those men now probably lay in the blood-and-bone gruel that ran slick under his feet. The Leviathan could still sail with the men she had below decks, but in terms of combat, she was effectively disabled.

Admiral Regulus felt bile rise to the back of his throat as he shakily rose to his feet, but he fought the urge to vomit. Trechtus was not so successful. When he saw the charnel house the Leviathan'sdeck had become, he turned to the gunwale and violently spewed his stomach's contents over the side. Realizing that the buzzing roar still lingered in his ears, Admiral Regulus looked around for the source, and before long he finally got a good look at the figures that had taken the Leviathanout of the fight.

His first impression was that they were shaped for flight, with wings and a sort of tail like those of a bird, but the similarities ended there. They didn't flap their paddle-like wings, yet they moved with a predatory grace and speed that reminded him of the falcons he'd seen back on mainland Tamriel. Whenever they dove upon his ships like birds of prey, bright whips of flame spewed from their wings and tore his ships apart from stem to stern, before rising again for altitude and repeating the process. The Admiral's brows rose when he realized that they were flyingwar machines.

He had heard of airships used in Tamriel's past, relying on Dwemer technologies and advanced magic to function, but they weren't common at all. Some mages he knew considered Dwemer airships one of the pinnacles of magickal advances. If so, then what would they consider these flying machines which could soar like a raptor and strike like a bolt of lightning?

"We have to surrender," Regulus said suddenly, in a voice so quiet that he barely recognized it as his own. He turned towards Trechtus, eyes wide in shock and, he was almost ashamed to admit, fear. "There's no way we can escape this foe with those things picking us off. They're not Dominion — they might not kill us. If they have a shred of mercy in them, we might yet live past today. It's either that, or we get picked off as we flee."

Trechtus didn't even bother maintaining a veneer of confidence anymore. Admiral Regulus could see the animal fear in his eyes, kept in check only by strict poise that had been cultivated by years of Battlemage training and discipline. At last, the Altmer nodded his agreement and cast a quick fortification spell on Admiral Regulus. While the elf ran to hoist a white flag of surrender —hoping that their foes would understand what it meant — Admiral Regulus walked to the prow of his ship and took in a deep breath, before shouting in a voice that had been amplified by magic.

"This is Admiral Marcus Atilius Regulus speaking! I declare surrender! Imperial Combined Fleet, stop fighting! Imperial Marines, lay down your arms! We have been bested today! I repeat: We surrender!"

…

The bridge of the USS Mount McKinleywas deathly silent. All the crewmembers were staring at each other in awed shock. Seeing everyone's reactions only helped Andrew confirm that what had just happened, what they had all witnessed, wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"English," muttered Rupertus, rubbing his jaw absently, his gaze distant. "Who'd've thought… Who exactly are these people?"

"Whoever they are, their Admiral want to surrender," commented Roy Geiger, eyes still wide from the startling revelation. "Looks like those F4U's off the Petrof Bayand Hollandia were enough to finally break 'em."

A few seconds more of silence stretched out amongst them, interrupted by the deep thunder of cannon fire. It wasn't enough to drown out the shouts coming from the 'enemy' Admiral. All eyes on the bridge were trained on the commanders of the Peleliu attack group, but Roy Geiger felt as if the weight of those gazes were all on him. Perhaps with reason — he was the Commanding General.

"Operator," Geiger finally said, staring out at the shattered fleet before them, "command all ships to hold fire. No need to continue this massacre."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The radio operator gave out his command and echoed it fleet-wide. It took a minute or so, but eventually the fire coming from his ships tapered off slowly, until the last cannon's fire echoed out into the open sea. Geiger looked out the bridge window and was relieved to see that even the enemy ships had stopped firing. Not that he was worried they would be sunk — he was just happy that this senseless slaughter of a fleet with wooden ships had finally ended.

They heard the voice of the enemy Admiral again. It sounded as if he were using the world's clearest megaphone, his voice's projection curiously lacking any sort of Doppler effect he'd grown used to hearing. "Thank you. My mage will send up a light orb above my flagship so you know where I am. You may board my vessel to discuss our conditions of surrender, or I can board yours."

Before anybody could ask about the strange terminology, the bridge crew gasped when a bright ball of light suddenly appeared over one of the largest of the wooden ships, where it then began floating in place.

The UNSC commander gave the floating ball of light a wary look. After all the madness he'd been witness to in less than an hour, this new revelation didn't seem to faze him as much. "More damn magician's tricks," he muttered. The man turned to Roy Geiger. "Well? What do you think?"

The commanding General gave a pensive huff, looking over his enemy's flagship. The wooden galleon had one of her three masts broken, and there were holes all over the sails that remained. "I think we should board their ship. Not like the Admiral's is in much condition to do any sailing anyways. Besides, it'll give me a better look at who exactly our enemies are."

A few minutes later, Geiger, Rupertus, and several armed Marines were in a small boat, sailing through the choppy sea towards the enemy's flagship. They had to weave through all the flotsam and debris from their battle. Geiger thought he saw a few figures flailing about in the water, and he could see the others on his boat looking at them with some concern and pity. Hopefully, they'd be able to get their negotiations with the enemy Admiral out of the way and rescue them in time. Their fleet might've attacked them, but he didn't like leaving men to die like that.

When they reached the galleon, the sight of the warship suddenly struck the General. The ancient vessel reminded him strongly of the USS Constitutionwith its three masts and profile. Seeing it marred by the battle and full of holes made him unreasonably sad, despite knowing it was a supposedly hostile ship.

A rope ladder was thrown down the side of the gunwale. Geiger looked at it warily, but at length he got on and began climbing up the side, hoping that he didn't look too clumsy while wrestling with the ladder — his age didn't make things any easier. When he finally got topside, the General slowly looked around at the deck. A slight grimace threatened to break out; their fighter planes probably strafed these guys, and without any AA cover to speak of they'd been shredded. Very few crewmembers were present to greet him, and all of them were stained with blood that most likely once belonged to their fellows.

Upon finally seeing the enemy's men, the General cocked an eyebrow. Most were clad in steel armor, and those who weren't either went bare-chested or, in the case of one man, were garbed in long robes which Geiger sworehe could see shimmer faintly. He was so intrigued by the strangely iridescent robes that he nearly didn't notice the man who wore them — and when he finally noticed his face, Geiger did a double take.

The man was yellow. Not Asian-yellow, but actual yellow.

No, that wasn't quite right, Geiger thought. He wasn't so much yellow as a shade of gold. But damn if he didn't still look freaky, like an alien out of Buck Rogers or something. He was just over a half head taller than anyone else on the deck, his unusually sharp features were contorted with a look that Geiger recognized as distasteful resignation, and he had pointed ears.

The freaky looking yellow-man stood next to a shorter, distinctly human man clad in ornate armor and a crested helmet: the supposed Admiral. Geiger thought he looked several years younger than him, but he was still far from old. Those dark brown eyes of his were subjecting him to a hard gaze full of experience, but Geiger thought he sensed some shame and guilt in it as well.

When the last American had climbed onto the deck of the enemy ship, a short silence stretched out between the two groups staring each other down. At last, the enemy Admiral removed his helmet to reveal salt-and-pepper hair, before standing ramrod straight and placing a fist to his breast in salute. Looking Geiger straight in the eyes he said, "I am Admiral Marcus Atilius Regulus of the Imperial Navy, and you stand upon my flagship, the Leviathan."

A few murmurs ran throughout the group of Americans. After another pause and a wary look at the Admiral and his men, Geiger issued his reply. "Roy Geiger, Commanding General in the United States Navy, and commander of the Third Amphibious Corps," he said, standing just a bit straighter.

The enemy Admiral's brows furrowed. "Pardon me, but… what navy did you say you represent?"

"The United States of America," Geiger repeated, also furrowing his brows. Something was off about the way the man was speaking, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Admiral Regulus stared blankly at the name's mention, before shaking his head. "I apologize, but I have never heard of any place known as the United States of America," he confessed. "You… aren't allied to the Aldmeri Dominion, are you?"

Geiger thought he could see a few of Admiral's deck hands bristle at that. The American shook his head. "No, I can't say we are. We've never heard of them."

The Admiral glanced over at his freakish friend, who suddenly cast his gaze down to the deck with a guilty look, before sighing. "It matters not. We're here to discuss the terms of our surrender. Or did you come here so you can personally cut my throat and see me bleed?"

Geiger glared at the man. "We're not here to kill you — though we have every right to. You attacked us first, without provocation."

He'd hoped that by implying that they'd provoked them into attacking, he'd learn if such was the case. Instead, all he got was an ashamed look from the Admiral. "We thought you were our enemy when we saw your banner with the bronze eagle on it — the Aldmeri Dominion uses an eagle as its sigil bird as well."

The American was about to open his mouth to reply again, but instead he found himself staring intensely at the Admiral. Seeing this, the Admiral cocked a brow at him. "Is something wrong, General?"

Geiger took an involuntary step back, and raised an accusing finger at the Admiral. "The words you're saying! They're… they don't match up with the way your mouth is moving!"

Admiral Regulus stared intently at him for a few seconds, before bowing his head. "If that is the case… then I'm not the only one who sees it. You're doing it, too. I suppose the Divines have decided to eliminate any language barrier between us."

Geiger's scowl only deepened at that. All the men on deck, both Americans and Imperials, broke out into shocked murmurs, staring at each other in shock and awe.

"That's enough!" Rupertus shouted, stepping forth. "I demand answers, right now! Who are you people, whereare we, and whyis all this crazy shit happening?!"

Admiral Regulus leveled a withering at the man. "I may have surrendered to your forces, but I am still an Admiral of the Imperial Navy, and I will not be denied the respect due my rank."

Rupertus fixed the Imperial Admiral with his own glare, but after a few moments he relented, and snapped out a quick, almost mocking salute. "Major General William Rupertus, United States Marine Corps, sir.Now would you kindly answer the damn question?"

His voice tapered off into a taut, harsh whisper at the end. The Imperial Admiral seemed to bristle angrily for a moment, before deflating slightly. He looked around at the Americans for a moment before replying. "I don't know who you people are, or where you come from, but I know this — you are no longer in the world you once knew."

Admiral Regulus waited for a response, and when he received none, he continued. "You are on Nirn, southwest of the main continent known as Tamriel. Right now, we sail in the Abecean Sea, a few hundred nautical miles southeast of Stros M'kai — and you are here because we brought you here,by means of a powerful experimental spell."

The Americans took that in without visibly reacting. Geiger, for his part, simply stared at the Admiral as if he were a mad dog. But after a few more seconds, he couldn't find the strength to keep it up. The General sighed and rubbed his temples with his hands. A bone-deep lassitude swept through him, and the tough American suddenly felt every one of his 58 years of age pressing down on him.

"I'm getting too old for this," Geiger finally grunted. For some reason, he felt surprisingly open to the possibility that something like a magic spellhad brought him and a number of his ships into another world entirely. After the events he'd witnessed in the past hour, perhaps this wasn't the most insane thing he'd had happen. But it was still a bit too much for him to digest.

At last, the General looked back up at the Admiral. "This is… too much to take in right now," the man confessed, looking around at the bloodstained deck. "Why don't you lead us to the nearest safe anchorage so we can discuss this matter in a more proper space, back on land?"

The Admiral gave him a blank look. "But… what about the terms of surrender?"

"Consider that your terms of surrender," Geiger replied sharply. "You lead our ships to the nearest port, and then you and I can discuss the circumstances around our… strange arrival."

Geiger paused, before thoughtfully adding, "We'll give you time to rescue any men overboard, and with your permission, I'll have my men assist."

The Admiral and his yellow friend exchanged a shocked glance at each other — probably surprised that they'd gotten off so lightly during their negotiations. Admiral Regulus suddenly looked back at Geiger with a wary, distrustful look. Not surprising, since they had reduced half of their fleet to toothpicks.

"Very well," said the Admiral with a grudging look, after a lengthy pause. "I accept both of those terms. I shall take you to our nearest port after we finish rescue operations. You deserve that much at least, for what we've done to you."

Geiger looked around at the galleon's torn sails and fallen mast once again. "Will your ship be able to even sail anymore?"

Regulus nodded. "Aye. Your flying machines wounded her, but the Leviathanis a tough girl. She'll be limited to under ten knots, but she can still sail."

"Good. Then we'll head out as soon as you're ready."

Geiger paused, hesitating for a moment. Then he stood straighter and offered the Admiral a salute — they'd established that they weren't enemies, not exactly, and Geiger wanted to at least offer the man the respect due an Admiral. Admiral Regulus and his yellow friend seemed to have been caught off-guard by the gesture, but after another moment of bewildered shock they both replied with salutes of their own, placing their fists against their breasts.

The General finally withdrew from his salute. He thought about apologizing for what he'd done to the Admiral's fleet, but eventually thought better of it. No need to stoke that fire. Instead, Geiger turned to his people. "Back to the McKinley, men!"

His Marines began taking the rope ladder back down to their waiting boat, moving quickly. When Geiger's turn came, however, he paused. The American threw a glance over his shoulder at the Imperial Admiral and his crew. They were all watching him intently; they were not necessarily hostile looks, but they sure as hell weren't warm and friendly, either.

Geiger sighed, and began taking the rope ladder down to the waiting boat. What in God's name have we been dragged into?