//------------------------------// // Prologue I: Anchors Aweigh // Story: Equestria Divided: The Sailor's Creed // by The Historian //------------------------------// USS Long Beach/ 22 Dec 2031 "I am a United States Sailor, I will support and defend the constitution and I will obey the orders of those appointed over me I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world I represent my country's navy combat team with Honor, Courage, and Commitment I am committed to excellence and the fair treatment of all." The triangular bulk of the Navy's smallest biter coasted quietly amongst the waves, its wake glowing green in the darkness of the night, the luminescent bacteria irritated and giving a big "I'm Here!" warning to any spotters happening to fly over them at that exact moment. If that was an issue, of course. Sailing outside of shipping lanes in a sailing black hole of stealthiness did that to your chances of remaining undetected. Only the small water creatures would have any clue of their passing, until they disgorged the large load of equipment aboard. But that was a long time coming, in the rough waters of the mid atlantic, taking the long route from their home port to the objective. It was midnight, the worst of all watches aboard a Navy vessel, and for a ship crewed by merely fourty people it was a ghost town. For Lieutenant Julia Ranas, a Filipino-American, it was her private hell. Three other people on the bridge, with the remaining five interspersed in various maintenance spaces and the engine room, maintaining the meticulously automated vessel with as much effort as one can muster from 0000 to 0600 in the morning. She rubbed her tired eyes, her still rather well-maintained hands nuzzling the red and tired eyes as they bored in on thousands of tiny pixels before them, the high-definition screen showing her course readouts, pitch indicators, and all the other important aspects of conning a ship in the dead of night with zero visibility. The vessel pitched violently, making the Lieutenant whip a hand to her mouth. Even a salty sea dog like herself could succumb to the perils of high sea states, the current one near six on the scale, aboard a ship where five was the designed survival. But, as with many things, some items worked longer and better than expected, and others not nearly as long. With a grimace, Ranas glanced at the window wipers, already jammed from freezing in the icy Atlantic. They'd need to do some more work when things quieted, that was for sure. She glanced at the rest of the crew, similarly red-eyed and dog-tired, but chugging coffee all the while to keep up their energy. Nobody would dare leave their shipmates out to dry. "All stations, report." She said, glancing to the Helmsman. "Steady on course zero seven five, Knots zero three five, pitch rate within boundaries, no noted exceptions, Conn." Said BM1 Robert Kovac, a Boatswain's Mate, Petty Officer 1st Class, and the current helmsman. He'd be up for Chief soon enough, and was raring to do so. Ranas' eyes turned to the hazy image of Fire Controlman Third Class Karen Stember, whose image was bathed in green light from her radar console. "Very well." "Contacts bearing 337, 120, and 275. Civilian emitters, Conn." She said. "Very well." Ranas' eyes turned to ST2 Michael Roberts, who's headphones had one ear on and one off for the report. "No contacts, sea state too rough to remain on Sonar, Conn." He said. Julia nodded and looked over at her console once more. All crew aboard the LCS vessels, much like the Submarine fleet, were cross-trained to an extent in other watch stations. With only fourty people to go around at all times, your rating was only a guideline. "Very well, report to comms and keep an ear quirked." She responded after a moment of pondering. The sailor stood and nodded at the same time, walking briskly behind a curtain and into the communications center. The LCS was too small for a proper Combat Information Center, and operated primarily in the bridge. It was another few hours of peaceful, uninterrupted screen-staring. The waves continually worsened as their hours behind the screens increased, with many more nauseous moments and even a near-vomit by one of the crew in engineering, which was saved mainly by the stabilizers. Had it been any harsher he'd likely have needed a janitor: and if there's anything you learn in the military, it's that you are your own janitor. Eventually, it got bad enough that the bridge crew started to get agitated. And it was around then that Lieutenant Ranas went on the 1MC, the shipwide intercom. "Attention all hands, Attention all hands, be advised we are in weather approaching Sea State 7. Immediate Reville and attention to secure the ship from water hazards. CO to the bridge, repeat, CO to the bridge." She called over it, garnering the attention of many of the already-awakened crew from the massive tossing and turning. Slowly, but surely, crewmen filed into the many unoccupied stations on the bridge, also making their way to the cargo and hangar bays, to secure craft and mission modules against the elements. Already, crashing could be heard when the ship pitched hard, but her trimiran hull refused to capsize. The sea's heavy swells bit at the Littoral ship's stability, and at her crew's stomachs, but as Commander Lucas Downey, Commanding Officer of the Long Beach arrived in the bridge, things were looking ship-shape. His eyes were red-rimmed to the maximum, his hands clutching a hastily procured coffee cup, which Julia guessed was half in his cup and half spilled on him and the rest of the way up to the bridge. The man took a sip, and strutted on in confidence. He snapped to attention at her. "You're relieved." He said, nodding. "I stand relieved, sir." She responded, "And I sure as hell am." A chuckle responded to her. "Radar, try a quick cloud map and see what we're up against" "Aye, sir. We're looking black for the next five klicks at least, perhaps more." She said, grimly. The skipper nodded, the rest of his black coffee disappearing down his gullet. He grimaced at the minimal amount he'd managed to down, and tossed the styrofoam onto the deck. It was already a mess, anyways. "Alright." Said Commander Downey. "Everyone take a seat or find somewhere with one. LT, tell the rivers guys they need to get tied right the hell down. Everyone else, try and keep us afloat as best you can. Any flooding?" He asked. A few men checked over alternate comms lines, and all came back negative. "Alright. we can only wait now." Blue flickers as water struck the hull, shaking lights as she stumbled down the ladderwell, falling at the last moment and only just catching herself, a nasty nosebleed now forming where the one part had hit rather unceremoniously. The cargo bay was a mess, with several mission boxes out of place and other gear adrift, men in BDUs and Guacamole camo stumbling about and trying to lash things or brace themselves. She called out commands, but they were deafened by the sea's roar, and a bit of water trickled from the small craft launcher. She felt her stomach heave as a heavy one flushed the ship from below, and for a minute she felt like she was flying, the engines audibly no longer churning the sea. And then they hit, the ship plunging into the water like a fighter jet who forgot to pull up, a massive pulse of sea spray audibly impacting the helo deck above. The hull groaned, as did she, her head only just missing a support beam, though her leg was not so lucky. It throbbed painfully as she tried to keep staggering, and a singular Riverine Warfare Chief rushed to her aid, supply pallets sliding around. "Ma'am! We've got to clear the deck, now!" He shouted, wrapping her shoulder and heaving the smaller officer into a standing position. The pair broke into a run as containers flipped and spilled, the crew viewing the mess below a lost cause. Chief Daniel Holland made his way to the bridge with the officer in tow, his sidearm equipped but not much else, only his BDU pants, tactical vest, and a skivvy shirt adorned his frame. Not even some boots to keep his feet dry. One of the wipers had finally unstuck, it seemed, and the crew's screen-illuminated faces looked out onto the horror before them. The Sea State was perhaps a 8.5 or a 9 now, a truly massive storm that should've been foretold by meteorological elements. But, over the radio, nothing. Static was actually filtering in, and the radar had quickly gone unreliable. But that wasn't the awe incoming. The ship lurched as another utterly massive wave hit them head on, the ship floating on air once more, crew flinging from their seats like a cheap sci fi flick, and it came into focus. The Long Beach was headed straight for a swirling vortex, slipping directly out of the sky itself, swirling blue and gold, one starry and the other bright like the sun, making some avert their eyes. The skipper had never been really religious, but recalled a line from so long ago in boot camp. "Blue of the Mighty Deep. Gold of God's Great Sun. Let these our colors be. Until all our time be done." He quoted to nobody in particular, as the hull crashed once more, sending men sprawling. "Anchors Aweigh, shipmates. We're on our way." The ship dove with the water, the portal's energy washing over the hull and making all the screens go dark. And then, so too, did the lights in everyone's heads. The Commander fell last, a testament to his resilience. Words whispered into his ears, spoken by two voices. "From afar we callest thou." Said one. "To save the world we've been forced from." Said another. "Some cannot survive without leadership. Others can save the badly led and the unjustly oppressed, and restore harmony. But it cannot be those who represent it any more. No, Commander Dempsey. You will restore freedom and justice, so that we might return to defeat the true evils. This is your charge." They echoed, as his eyes rolled back. "Mind the monsters." --- The Commander was the first to fall asleep, and the first to awaken, the hull now stable and un-lurching, the mess on the floor making quite clear last night's nearly surreal storm was a reality. He stumbled up onto his feet, eyes quickly having their sleep cleared. He peeked out the forward windows. "Mind the Monsters" He recalled, as several other crew awoke confused. His eyes squinted, and he swore he saw a pair of eyes stare back, quickly claimed by the waves. "All hands, re-" He almost began, before he looked back on impulse. A singular black head poked from the water, its eyes locked on him in a menacing fashion. And then another came out. And another. His crew was awestruck, as was he. "Mind the Monsters" he repeated in his mind. "That was no dream" And then the Hydra roared.