The Finest Hour

by Carlo Zen

  Still, since they get shot down more often than we do, the cost-effectiveness evens out.

  "Enemy artillery is firing!"

  "Hit confirmed. All trenches, report your damage."

  "Theater report. Light damage."

  "Counterbattery fire! Crush 'em in one go!"

  On the ground, a so-called "battle"---an unopposed attack, really---is unfolding. Man, if we're in good enough shape to obliterate an enemy position in retaliation for a single shot fired, maybe I should have stayed helping with the anti-surface attacks.

  That said, avoiding risk is logical and therefore a must. Now I need to focus on getting air superiority or air supremacy, as the case may be.

  ...Still, at this rate, we might be able to win this war.

  It was a faint hope.

  But the moment the leisurely thought enters her head, it's dispelled by a strange feeling, just a ripple but nonetheless strange, from the direction of the ocean.

  "This is Rhine Control with a general notice. To the mage unit in the airspace that is not broadcasting identification! Make your affiliation clear now!"

  A bit of commotion and a challenge.

  "This is Rhine Control. I say again, to the mage unit in the airspace that is not broadcasting identification! To the unit passing through the maritime identification zone! Make radio contact or send identification immediately!"

  Friendly warning signals echo across the theater like screams. Even over the radio I can tell from the desperate repeated challenges to the silent unknown that the controller has fallen into a kind of panic.

  Bad feelings are always right.

  An enemy from the sea...? That means...yeah, it must be the unpleasant relatives of the pleasant John Bulls.

  "Fairy 01 to Rhine Control. I presume the unknown is an enemy. Requesting permission to turn around and intercept."

  Tanya waves Lieutenant Weiss over as she contacts HQ via long-range wireless. It's much better to turn and attack than to be chased from behind.

  "Rhine Control, roger. But an early warning unit is currently attempting to make contact. Limit your fire."

  But although she gets permission to go back, she's handed limitations based on the rules of engagement. The whole principle of air combat is to be the first to find the enemy and the first to attack. On top of that, just a little while ago, control said it was okay to shoot. Getting slapped with limitations that flatly contradict that makes it pretty hard to fight a war.

  The brass is always expecting the impossible from the troops in the field. In the end, a mage company is just one unit. Still, I'm not interested in dancing to their tune and then falling like autumn leaves.

  So Tanya is about to press her case but suddenly realizes she's kind of losing her cool.

  She pauses to divert her inner irritation with a deep breath. Then she puts serious effort into making sure her discontent doesn't come through and states her objection in an even tone.

  "Fairy 01 to Rhine Control. I can't accept that. If we can't strike preemptively..."

  But her efforts are all in vain.

  "Warning! Unknown mages---a battalion---approaching fast!" A friendly warning comes over the wireless.

  "No response to a friend or foe request!"

  The radio waves are getting tense, and the exchange, muddled. When friendly troops who seem to have visual confirmation of the unit give a warning, Tanya makes up her mind---and she does it quickly.

  Ever since Operation Lock Pick began, only one unit has flown from the sea toward the Low Lands, and that is the 203rd Aerial Mage Battalion's select company.

  So she uses a megaphone to shout instructions to Lieutenant Weiss, who is now next to her.

  "Lieutenant Weiss, we're going back. Let everyone know!"

  "We're going back?!"

  Suppressing the urge to chew him out for being so dense, she shouts, "Yes! I've concluded the unknown is an enemy! I want radio silence, and smother your mana signals! Let's get the jump on them!"

  "It's too dangerous to judge them an enemy! We can't rule out the possibility that they're friendly marine mages from the High Seas Fleet!"

  "If they were from the High Seas Fleet, they would at least give us the password! They're the enemy! Consider them the enemy and handle them!"

  He finally seems to get it and nods his assent. Before he flies off to alert the rest of the company, she adds, "Before you go silent, give a theater warning about a bogey! A new one, from the sea!"

  At the same time, the commanders of the opposing units became aware of their enemy's abilities and loudly clicked their tongues in frustration.

  Lieutenant Colonel Drake, a Commonwealth commander being intercepted, was particularly vexed.

  "...An enemy who doesn't hesitate is the worst, 'ey, Jeffrey?"

  As he watched the imperial mages briskly prepare to intercept, the high level of discipline suggested by their movements made him feel completely out of his depth.

  Changing the bigwigs' diapers was not his hobby. And anyone would complain if they were hurriedly dispatched for such a mission because the politicians failed to read the Empire's moves.

  "Truly. You can think about it any way you like, but this situation is clear."

  These men were told something unusual was happening on the lines between the Empire and the Republic and were sent posthaste to ascertain what.

  But unable to establish contact with a Republican controller, and seeing that the only ones patrolling the skies were imperial air force units and mages, no one could misjudge the situation. As First Lieutenant Jeffrey, Drake's vice commander, grumbled, it was proof that the Imperial Army was overwhelming the Republicans.

  "Commander Drake, should we pull out? We were instructed to avoid combat if possible..."

  "We can't."

  Hence, Drake's instinctually rejected his vice commander's suggestion of withdrawing. When the subordinate man asked why, he flashed an invincible smile and said, "If we let this chance go by, this encirclement will grow to become a thick wall... Right now, there's still a nonzero chance of breaking through. It's got to be worth doing some recon-in-force."

  Drake's reading was that escape was still a possibility if they acted fast.

  Of course, the supremely brisk movements of the imperial mage unit before his eyes astounded him, and they were forming up without even emitting any detectable signals, so he wasn't sure if recon was possible.

  "Are you seeing these guys? They seem like an awful lot of trouble."

  "I don't deny that. But can we really just leave the situation as it is?"

  Drake could understand how Jeffrey felt---if it were an option, he would have wanted to pull out, too. But failing to understand how long the Republican main forces could hold out under these circumstances would prove disastrous for the Commonwealth, as well.

  So Drake was determined to fight, even if it meant sacrificing his men. If we can break through, then let's break through. If not, then let's at least tell the others what fearsome adversaries these guys are.

  "Besides, Lieutenant Jeffrey, have you forgotten what kind of person you are?"

  "Ahh, right, you'll have to excuse me, Colonel... Now that you mention it, we're citizens."

  "Correct, Lieutenant, we're citizens, not subjects. At least remember what kind of state you belong to. Too many long nights at the pub?"

  So as Drake chatted with his troops, they prepared to resist the approaching imperial mage unit and awaited the beginning of the battle.

  "Apparently, in the Republic, they call pubs 'bars.'"

  "Hmm, sounds like a pronunciation problem."

  "You think?"

  And though he was joking around to keep his unit relaxed, Drake hadn't dropped his guard.

  "Warning! Bogey up above! You're being targeted!"

  Which is why he was able to respond immediately when the lookout's warning rang out.

  Trained to break as a conditional reflex, the troops just barely managed to act. They dodged the
rain of formulas so narrowly that they couldn't help but be shocked.

  "Ngh, eight thousand? Is this that unit from those reports?"

  There had been reports of an imperial unit who could operate at an altitude of eight thousand---higher than the commonsense limit, but until actually facing it, Drake had believed it to be a battlefield legend.

  After all, he knew from personal experience how harsh the environment over six thousand was. A unit flying at the absurd altitude of eight thousand was mind-blowing.

  "Intercept! They aren't that many! Shoot them all down!" Still, seeing that they were only a company, Drake put his troops' numerical advantage to work and roared orders to stop them. "Keep your fire disciplined! Suppressive fire! Close the altitude gap as much as you can!"

  He chose to meet the enemy with disciplined fire because he was confident in his unit's numbers, their level of training, and their sharp shooting.

  "Wh---? They dodged?!"

  Hence his initial disbelief. This might have happened against a solo enemy, but how could an entire battalion's worth of disciplined fire miss every single target?

  Drake returned to himself amid the shocked moans of his men---Of all the---and thundered out orders to prepare for a counterattack...but he was just a smidge late.

  "Lieutenant Hawkins is hit! Shit, someone cover him!"

  He hated hearing the reports of who was shot and the agonized groans coming over the radio. The only thing he could be happy about in this situation was that no one was down.

  "They're even tougher than the rumors say! Don't take them lightly---they aren't some kind of tall tale! Ahh, geez, I can't believe that crazy story was true---goddamnit!"

  It wasn't just some phantom the Entente Alliance and Republic cowards conjured up!

  All those stories about the Devil of the Rhine, about an imperial unit running amok at eight thousand---what about that was just a legend? It's not nonsense at all; they're actually an elite, terrible enemy unit that we've been underestimating!

  What were the intelligence analysts doing, those freeloaders?!

  "Ngh! We're getting out of here! Slowing them down and collecting intel isn't worth any further risk!"

  MAY 28, UNIFIED YEAR 1925, COMMONWEALTH HUMANITARIAN AID GROUP PEACE WORLD'S HOSPITAL ADJACENT TO THE REPUBLICAN RHINE ARMY GROUP HEADQUARTERS

  "...Ngh. I don't know this ceiling..."

  Forcing his muddled consciousness to function, Captain Cagire Caine from the Republican Rhine Army Group headquarters took stock of his situation.

  Okay, here he is, thought John as he casually pushed the nurse call button. He was being considerate because Caine had to be totally fatigued.

  He must be on a potent drug, some kind of long-acting sedative.

  Well, that's probably the kindest thing to do for a man who was half-dead from horrible burns and carbon monoxide poisoning, rather than letting him thrash around.

  Anyhow, as long as I can talk to him, that's fine. I should just ask what I need to ask. That's what he decided to do, but...if he was being honest, he felt that someone returned from the brink of death had the right to a little peace.

  His vision must be okay. If he can make out the ceiling, he can see colors. That said, since he can't move his body at all, his field of vision is limited. But his ears and mouth are working normally. It'd be nice if he'd realize I'm here.

  Anyhow, he's alive. Given that, an Intelligence agent would be trained to wonder where he is.

  Then John thought he should respond to Cagire's confusion. If this pain-in-the-ass Intelligence guy mistakes me for an enemy, it'll be more trouble than it's worth.

  "So you're awake?" John addressed him calmly in a voice the captain should have been able to recognize.

  "...Who are you? I beg your pardon, but please give me your name and rank."

  John didn't expect to be asked that, but he couldn't fault the fellow for following procedure.

  Although he would remember if he weren't utterly incapacitated.

  "Sure. You're Captain Cagire Caine, and you can call me Mr. John. I'm from the Commonwealth. Haven't seen you in a while."

  "Oh, Mr. John."

  He pretended to understand. Well, even I have to admit it sounds pretty fishy, but a soldier doesn't ask questions when they've been told not to go poking their nose around. Anyhow, they knew each other's faces.

  As far as the previous intel went, at least, they weren't enemies. They were on friendly enough terms to cooperate and exchange intel. Hence, "Mr. John" was enough to be understood.

  "So, Mr. John, why am I tied down?"

  No wonder he was so confused, questioning why he was bound to the bed.

  "Ahh, you're not really tied down. Your meds are mostly pain-killers."

  "Huh? So I lost almost all feeling in my body from pain-killers?"

  From the file the nurses brought when he pushed the button, it didn't seem like he should be fully numb, though. Maybe some of his nerves are shot.

  ...And so young, poor chap. May the Lord have mercy...amen.

  "If writhing in pain is a masochistic quirk of Republicans, then I suppose we've committed a cultural faux pas."

  Geez, at this rate, it doesn't seem like I'm going to find out where the imperial mole is hiding.

  And apparently, his pessimism wasn't misplaced.

  Caine suffered from memory loss due to carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Frustratingly, he wasn't in any position to provide useful information.

  "Get well soon."

  With that, John left the room and heaved a sigh. Then he picked up the hospital telephone.

  He had to notify the Republican Army that he'd just barely managed to save one of their officers' lives. But he had to say what he couldn't say earlier---that the way the man was, he was closer to a corpse.

  The only thing he learned was that Caine didn't know what had happened immediately before he was injured. Sadly, his condition rapidly deteriorated after their conversation.

  The top drily responded that he should be promptly turned over rather than probed for no good reason, so there was John giving the notice.

  ...Given the Republic's changing circumstances, this is my only choice. A calculating thought came to mind. It was true that if the fellow didn't last long, they would no longer need to have a "charity organization" based in a "hazardous region."

  Also, John mentally added, considering how furious General Habergram is going to be, the Republic should bear some of the blame.

  And it's regrettable that my flight back was set up so efficiently. Just the thought of how grouchy Habergram must have gotten made him want a smoke. This is one of those times I just want to unwind with a few cigars and not think about anything.

  True to his desire, he took out a cigar, put it in his mouth, cut it, lit up, and puffed.

  Thus exhaling smoke in lieu of sighing, John, with his somewhat aloof John Bull spirit,7 cursed the heavens. Of course, he was proud of his ability to keep calm and collected in any situation, but even for him this one was a challenge.

  I can handle the homeland's "cuisine," but spare me Habergram's angry screams. More than a few from Intelligence grumbled in that vein.

  Reluctantly---well and truly reluctantly---John disembarked in the Commonwealth.

  Besides tea, there was nothing that could soothe his heart.

  Ahh, he lamented, but he would do his best. He just had to think of the cancellation of his vacation and sudden business trip to the Republic as earning money for his family.

  Good grief. With that mental murmur, he plunged into the storm of making his report.

  He got a sense of the situation from the looks on the faces of the people passing by, but he still had to go. Granted, he wasn't sure if his meager salary covered observing a man who was like a dragon when he flew into a rage.

  Grumbling internally, he didn't let it show on his face as he entered the room.

  He gave the waiting major general an oral report that covered the mai
n points.

  Maybe you could say "luckily," or maybe you would just say he was used to it, but he had enough time to plug his ears as he finished speaking.

  Naturally, he made use of it immediately.

  "...............DON'T FUCK WITH ME!"

  Forged by salty tides, the natural voice of a seaman who had been with the navy since the days of sailing ships was loud enough to thunder over even a stormy ocean. And this angry general's screams were even louder.

  Major General Habergram of the Foreign Strategy Division.

  The fist he pounded down was bloodied, but it broke the desk nonetheless---the desk made of oak, known for its durability. What magnificent power. John watched with a somewhat faraway gaze and endeavored to understand his boss's eccentric behavior in an objective way.

  He could probably even make a living as a baritsu instructor.

  "Ah. That said, you know, the sole survivor was apparently burned before he knew it."

  "Mr. John" feigned a sigh, all but saying he had plugged his ears because he knew he would be screamed at.

  John had known Habergram for a long time. As a result, he also knew what might calm the man down a little.

  "The survivor is in an extremely precarious condition. Unfortunately, I don't think he'll be able to hold out much longer. He only finally spoke just a little while ago." John explained why they couldn't question the survivor before being asked. "We have no choice, so I think we should send him to a facility in the Republic for urgent care to save his life and consider what we have, all the new information we were able to get. I don't think we can expect a follow-up report."

  He knew, however, that these words would have very little tranquilizing effect on Habergram, who was practically exploding with rage.

  "Thanks to the fires, there are no documents left. Everything's vanished."

  To put it plainly, the results of their investigation were not good. All the classified documents they had collected had burned up. The loss of veteran agents who might have discovered something was also huge. The only thing they had managed to learn from the Republican survivor was that they had been burned up before they even realized what was going on.