'No survivors, ambassador. Not one.'
Silver Birch seemed to wilt under the verbal onslaught from Princess Celestia. Though she was not raising her voice, her tone commanded instant respect and intense concentration when she spoke.
'Four hundred and twenty three. Four hundred and seven ponies, sixteen zebras, dead, because of a 'miscommunication?' Does your government really expect us to believe that?'
Silver Birch glanced nervously at Shining Armour who stood beside Celestia, his steely expression giving nothing away. Next to him stood Air Marshal Typhoon, who had been advising the Princess regarding the shootdown.
'Your Highness,' the ambassador began. 'I do not know what else to tell you.'
'How about the truth, ambassador?' Celestia said coldly.
'Your Highness, you have already heard the truth as I understand it. I have been told exactly what I told you. Our interceptors tracked an aircraft entering our airspace without authorisation. Air Defence Command ordered a ground-controlled interception. They received no communication from the aircraft, believed it to be a military surveillance jet, and were ordered to destroy it.'
'What if I told you, ambassador, that several neutral aircraft and ships in the area reported hearing transmissions on the emergency channel from the airliner clearly identifying itself to your interceptors?'
'I...was not aware of any such transmissions, and neither were our pilots,' he said nervously, 'or they would never have opened fire.'
'Your pilots monitor the international emergency frequency as a matter of course, do they not?' Celestia questioned. Especially when on an interception mission? Is that not the standard practice for such missions?'
'Well, yes...' Silver Birch began to sweat visibly. 'I...cannot speak to the precise circumstances until we have interviewed the pilots thoroughly and examined their flight recorders...'
'It seems to me, ambassador, that there are only two explanations for this incident. One is that your interceptor force is badly trained and badly led, and the other is that this was a deliberate act.' She stared down at Sliver Birch.
'I can assure you, Your Highness, that this was most definitely not a deliberate act,' he gushed. 'The USR would never deliberately engage in the cowardly practice of attacking unarmed civilian aircraft, no matter what the circumstances.'
'And yet,' Celestia said, 'that is exactly what it has done.'
'Your Highness, that is a slanderous accusation,' Silver Birch said, regaining some of his usual bluster. 'I would caution you against making such statements, as we do not yet know the exact circumstances surrounding the incident.'
'Indeed we do not,' Celestia said, frowning. 'Let us hope that, whatever the cause, similar incidents do not occur in the future, or it may lead both our nations down a dark path from which there is no return.'
'Our pilots did their job,' Silver Birch replied. 'We have the right to defend our airspace, do we not?'
'Yes, ambassador, but you do not have the right to shoot down an unarmed civilian jet that was posing no threat to your interceptors or to anything on the ground.'
'Believe me, Your Highness, we will get to the bottom of this. The USR has no more desire than you to see conflict between our nations.'
'Then I suggest,' she said spitefully, 'that you train better pilots so that something like this does not happen again.'
Applejack sighed. The bomb shelter was looking much more like a bomb shelter than it had done a week earlier. In their spare time, she and Big Mac had worked hard on it, pouring concrete and piling earth. The shelter itself was complete, or at least its concrete shell was. They had packed dirt around and on top of it, filling the hole they had dug and burying the shelter a few feet underground. A steel hatch on top provided access, and all that remained was to fill it with items that would enable them to survive while the fallout dissipated. They had already fitted a large water tank which would be filled if the worst looked likely to happen, and a battery-powered filtration system which would clean the air coming in through the vents. It would house the four of them, Applejack, Big Mac, Granny Smith and Applebloom, in, if not exactly comfort, then at least livable conditions, for several weeks. Exactly how long, Applejack was not keen to find out.
She trotted back to the farmhouse where Granny Smith sat in her rocking chair, reading the day's paper.
'Howdy, young'un!' she said, looking up.
'Howdy granny,' Applejack replied, noticing the paper's headline. USR shoot down civilian jet- 423 dead.
'Lemme take a look at that paper real quick,' she said, tapping the front page with a hoof.
'Hmm?' Granny Smith replied. 'Oh, that plane. Yeah, a terrible business. Looks like the USR's gettin' all uppity again.' She passed the newspaper to Applejack, who turned back to the front page and started reading.
USR shoot down civilian jet- 423 dead.
Government officials announced this morning that a Royal Air Equestria jet has been shot down after it apparently strayed into USR airspace. A spokespony from the Aviation Ministry said that RAE Flight 106 was on a scheduled flight from Manehattan to New Zebraland when it apparently strayed off course and into USR airspace. No information has yet been released by the USR regarding the role its air defence aircraft may have played in the incident, but the Equestrian government states that it is 'certain beyond any reasonable doubt' that the airliner was shot down by a USR interceptor.
'Well consarn it!' Applejack spat. 'What in the hell are the USR thinkin? Are they tryin' ta start a war?'
'Sure looks that way,' Granny Smith replied, only half-jokingly. 'Looks like it's a good job yer buildin' that bomb shelter! They never did know their place...been causin' trouble for hundreds a' years! Ah remember when ah was a spry young filly, they was much easier to deal with back then, they didn't have any a' this fancy new technology, all these bombs and such...what's so special about these bombs, anyways?'
'Nuclear bombs?' Applejack asked. Granny Smith nodded.
'Yup. Just sounds like any other bomb ta me. What's so special about 'em?' She wished Big Mac were here to explain; he knew so much more about it than she did.
'Well, from what ah understand, they're way more powerful than regular bombs,' she began, 'and they leave behind radioactivity.'
'Pff! Radioactivity! What's that even mean? Ah get plenty a' radioactivity, ah just tune in ta that jazz station every night...'
'Ah don't think it means radio like that, granny,' AJ said. 'They release radiation when they go off, and it poisons the land.'
'Aw, hell! They ain't poisonin' this farm!' Granny Smith exclaimed. 'If they wanna stop our apples growin', they're gonna have ta come over here and take 'em!' Applejack smiled at her determination, though inside she knew that there was nothing they could do to stop the farm being wiped out if the missiles started flying.
'Sure thing, granny,' she said. 'We won't let 'em take our apples, will we?'
'A' course not!' she replied, grinning. 'They can drop their bombs and we'll still be here!'
Hope you're right, granny...
The ENS San Franciscolt steamed purposefully eastward, its twin propellers spinning furiously, driving the Manehattan-Class destroyer through the water at a speed approaching 30 knots. One of eight such ships in the Royal Equestrian Navy, the San Franciscolt was based in the city that gave it its name. Nearly 500ft in length, displacing almost ten thousand tons and painted gunmetal grey, the San Franciscolt was fast, well armed and agile, qualities that enabled it to carry out its multi-role mission very effectively. Its current task was to patrol the disputed northern sea lanes that separated the USR from Equestria. Smugglers and drug runners were commonplace in these waters, as were refugees from the USR and the occasional incursion by a USR patrol boat or frigate, and so the Northern Fleet's job was as much a policing role as a military one. The seas were often rough, which added to the drama, and meant they were often engaged in search and rescue missions as well.
Today was no exception. A strong wind was gusting across the open ocean, whipping up the waves into sizable obstructions that the San Franciscolt's bow cut through like a knife. The local coastguard station had received a distress call from a small pleasure craft that had lost its engine and was now drifting aimlessly with the current towards the USR's territorial waters. As the nearest ship, the San Franciscolt had been vectored in to assist them.
On the bridge, Captain Swift peered through his binoculars. The boat was about a mile ahead of them, rolling in the swell.
'Bring us alongside,' he ordered.
'Aye, Captain,' the helmspony replied.
'All ahead one half.'
'Aye, Captain. All ahead one half.' Swift felt the ship's turbines throttle down in response to his order and the ship lost some of its momentum. As they closed on the boat, he ordered a further reduction in speed. A light rain had begun falling, The boat would be taken in tow behind the destroyer and its crew loaded aboard.
'All stop!' he ordered, lowering his binoculars as they came alongside the pleasure craft.
'All stop, aye,' came the reply. The gentle vibration of the ship's engines died away.
'Get them on board,' he ordered. The crew moved to obey. Orders were relayed and a rope ladder went over the side. There were four ponies on the boat, and it would take a few minutes to get them all safely onto the deck of the destroyer. Without the engines, the destroyer was drifting with the current, taking them slowly further north.
'Sir, Ops reports unknown radar contacts on their scope.' The call came from the Operations officer, Lieutenant Cannonball. 'Ops,' or the Operations Centre, was located three decks below the bridge, in the well-protected hull of the ship. It was there that data coming in to the ship was collected and analysed- from radar, sonar, and radio. The ship was fought from there- the weapons and fire control systems were operated from the same room. The ship's search radar had picked up unknown contacts.
'Ops reports four unknown air contacts, sir,' Cannonball said, 'eighty miles north and closing fast.' North.
'Coming from the USR?' he asked the rhetorical question.
'Looks that way, sir,' Cannonball replied.
'We're in international waters. Guess they're trying to intimidate us. Let's take no chances. Action stations.'
Cannonball hit a switch on his console and a loud, warbling alarm began to sound all across the ship. He spoke into a microphone.
'Action stations, action stations. All hooves man your action stations. This is not a drill.' The crew galloped to their stations, donning flash hoods and securing watertight doors as they prepared the ship for possible combat.
'Radio contact, sir! On the emergency channel!' The communications officer chimed in.
'Patch it through,' he ordered. The comm officer hit a few buttons and the radio on the bridge crackled into life, broadcasting the universal emergency frequency that could be used to communicate with ships or aircraft of any nationality.
'Unidentified vessel in USR territorial waters, you are in a restricted area. Reverse your course immediately and identify yourself.' Must be the aircraft.
Territorial waters my plot!' Swift growled, flicking the switch on the microphone on his console.
'Unidentified aircraft, this is the ENS San Franciscolt. We are in international waters and engaged in a search and rescue operation.' There was silence for a few seconds before the reply came.
'Equestrian ship, you are in USR territorial waters. Reverse your course immediately.'
'I say again, we are engaged on a search and rescue mission in international waters.' The radio crackled with static.
'Equestrian ship, reverse your course immediately. This is your final warning.'
'Warning? Who the hell do these guys think they are?' he spat. They wouldn't dare attack without orders...would they?
'I repeat, we are on a search and rescue mission and will not vacate the area until our mission is complete.'
'Are they aboard yet?' Swift asked, gesturing to starboard at the boat that still lay alongside.
'Aye sir, all ponies are aboard,' came the reply.
'Mark the boat's position. We'll come back for it later. Helm! All ahead full. Get us moving,' he ordered.
'All ahead full, aye!'
The ships' turbines began to throb again, vibrating the deck plating. Swift could feel it in his hooves as the ship began to move, leaving the small craft bobbing in its wake.
'Range now ten miles,' Cannonball reported. The aircraft would be visible in seconds off their port bow.
'Take us to a heading of 180 degrees,' Swift said. 'Make sure these lunatics know we are leaving.'
'Aye aye, sir,' the helmspony replied. 'Turning to 180.' The bow of the ship leaned over as it began to turn to starboard.
'Vampire, vampire!' The shout sent a sudden shock through him. Vampire was the codeword for an inbound missile. 'Incoming, eight tracks.'
'Celestia damn them!' he shouted. What the hell are they doing? We're leaving!
Eight tracks meant two missile launches per aircraft. At a range of under ten miles, they had mere seconds to react.
'Helm, flank speed! Bring them down!' Swift roared. 'Don't let any get through.' His crew and his ship jumped into action, the engine whining as the helmspony ordered flank speed, the maximum speed of which the ship was capable for short periods.
The San Franciscolt was outfitted with a sophisticated anti-aircraft missile system that could also be used to engage enemy missiles. It also mounted a five-inch cannon on its bow, and a collection of AA guns, close-in defensive miniguns and decoy launchers on its superstructure. All of these systems swung into play moments after Swift issued his order. The tracking radar had already plotted firing solutions for every missile, as well as their launcher aircraft. With the press of a few buttons in the Operations Centre, the system was ready to fire.
As the anti-ship missiles streaked in toward them, plumes of fire erupted from the foredeck of the destroyer, which was studded with small hatches. First one missile, then another, stabbed skyward from the ship's vertical launch system, maneuvering themselves rapidly towards the enemy. Every second, another missile blasted from its launch tube, until there were a total of eight in the air, almost forming a convoy of smoke trails as they headed north.
The enemy missiles were sea skimmers, coming in at wavetop height. Fast and low, they were difficult to intercept, even for an advanced system like that of the Manehattan-Class. Despite this, the first four fell victim to the San Franciscolt, erupting in bright balls of flame that were rapidly extinguished as they plunged into the wind-wracked sea. The other four defensive missiles missed the inbounds, unable to intercept them, their proximity-fused warheads detonating harmlessly behind their targets.
A string of small canisters burst from small tubes on the port side of the ship and burst in showers of silver foil; these were the radar decoys, designed to fool the incoming missiles into thinking that the cloud of chaff was its target. At the same time, the ship's main gun swivelled from its resting position, pivoting left and upward. The radar-guided gun began spitting out shells at the enemy planes that were now but a few scant miles out and clearly visible. The empty shell casings clattered out of the gap below the barrel, clanging together as they rolled around on the deck. The shells began to burst in the path of the incoming aircraft, guided by the ship's fire control system. With just the third shot the gun found its mark, and one of the fighter jets burst into a fireball and spiralled down into the foam-capped waves below.
The ship was executing a rapid turn to starboard, listing heavily as it turned as sharply as it could. The four surviving missiles were now too close to be engaged in time by the vertical launch system. The defence of the ship now turned to its close-in weaponry; two six-barreled miniguns in rapid-traverse mounts were fitted on either side of the ship's superstructure. The chaff cloud had been ineffective, dispersed too rapidly by the strong wind, and the missiles were still streaking in.
With a noise like ripping canvas, the miniguns on the San Franciscolt's port side opened fire. Each one spat out seventy-five round every second, filling the air with a hailstorm of bullets. The four missiles flew blindly into it. Two of them burst apart, shredded by the rapid gunfire. The other two made it through the defensive curtain miraculously unscathed. One of them burst at the waterline amidships, and the other smashed into the bow astride the ship's main gun.
The bridge crew, though braced for the impacts, found themselves tumbling from their hooves as the missiles exploded against the hull of the ship, ripping through the relatively thin armour, shattering internal bulkheads and letting the cold waters pour in. The second missile punctured the main gun's magazine, and the prow of the ship vanished in a sheet of blinding flame as the ammunition detonated in one catastrophic blast.
'Holy Celestia!' somepony shouted. Swift picked himself up from the deck. The bridge windows had been shattered, and there was broken glass all over the place. Acrid black smoke wafted in through the empty frames. One crewpony had a deep gash on his face from where he had fallen against the edge of a console. Swift got to his hooves and peered through the broken windows.
The bow of the ship was broken, shattered by the internal explosion. A huge, jagged hole marked the impact point. Seawater was rushing in, flooding the ruined bow compartments. The gun turret had been blown from its mountings, fractured and distorted by the blast. It rolled about on the deck like the casings it had been spewing out moments before.
'Damage report!' he shouted, not taking his eyes off of the damaged bow. The ship was still moving rapidly forward, its turbines propelling it at flank speed despite the damage. This was actually making things worse- the rough seas were swamping the damaged bow and filling it up with water. They had to slow down.
'Helm, all ahead two thirds!' he ordered quickly.
'All ahead two thirds, aye!' came the response. The throb of the engines reduced considerably.
'Comms, get through to Fleet Command. Give them a report, then send out a distress call on all channels.' Priorities- make the report first. We've just been the victims of an act of war.
'Are our missiles online?' he snapped, as the three surviving enemy jets roared overhead.
'No sir!' somepony shouted. 'The radar has been knocked out.'
'Celestia damn it!' Swift cursed. 'We're sitting ducks here!'
'Damage report coming in, sir,' Cannonball said. 'Flooding on decks one through four amidships. Bow compartments are flooded. Main fire control offline. Several casualties reported on the lower decks.'
The watertight doors should prevent the flooding spreading any further- unless they had been damaged by the explosions. The ship was not sinking, not yet- the few compartments that had been holed were not enough to bring her down. But she was heavily damaged, and helpless to fight back against the enemy aircraft, unless the radar could be brought back online or they were lucky enough to catch one of the jets in the streams of tracer from the short range miniguns. If they come back around...
'Any chance of getting that radar back online?' he shouted.
'Not anytime soon, sir,' Cannonball replied. 'It might need a hard reset...not sure what's been hit or if it's just temporary shock damage.'
'What about the secondary? Can we slave the missiles to that?' The San Franciscolt carried a secondary tracking radar, but it was not designed to be used to guide the missiles- it was merely used for tracking air targets, much like the equipment used by Equestria's civilian air traffic control.
'I suppose we could try, sir, but I doubt it will work,' Cannonball said. 'Either way, we don't have the kind of time we'd need to set it up.'
'I've made contact with Fleet Headquarters, sir,' the Comm officer interrupted. 'They acknowledge our transmission and say we are weapons free to engage any and all USR targets.'
'A little late for that, but thank them for me just the same,' Swift growled. 'What are those bastards doing now?' Cannonball checked his console.
'They're coming back for another pass...'
'Evasive maneuvers!' Swift shouted. 'Make smoke! All ahead full, take us south!'
The destroyer began to accelerate, swinging to starboard, smoke pouring from generators on the superstructure, obscuring the ship from visual observation and containing particulates that blocked infra-red radiation, They were heading for Equestrian waters, where friendly air cover could protect them. Fleet Command reported that they were already scrambling jets from Miramare which, if they could survive long enough, would drive the enemy aircraft away.
'Inbound from astern,' Cannonball reported. 'We can engage with the close-in guns, sir.'
'Do it!' Swift ordered.
The defensive miniguns and the two remote anti-aircraft cannons on the rear superstructure opened up at the incoming jets, though they lacked the radar guidance that would have made them considerably more accurate. They filled the air astern of the ship with bullets and shells, but the aircraft did not need to be that close to fire. A missile leapt from the rail beneath the wing of the lead aircraft, which then turned away to avoid the barrage. The missile, radar-guided, ignored the smoke cloud and speared straight in towards the destroyer. With its high-fidelity combat radar disabled, the San Franciscolt could not engage the missile directly; all it could do was hope that the anti-aircraft barrage would bring it down.
It didn't.
The missile struck just abaft the beam, tearing through the lower deck of the superstructure before detonating. A blast of flame and dust erupted from the side of the ship as the missile punctured through the deck to the engine room. Both turbines were ripped from their mountings, shattered. One of them exploded, ripping another ragged hole in the hull below the waterline. The chief engineer and his team were killed instantly.
'Damage report!' Swift shouted again. 'Get us moving!'
'Engine room has been hit, sir,' came the reply. 'We're dead in the water.' Swift cursed.
'Engine room flooding, sir,' the damage control officer reported. 'It's spreading into adjacent compartments. The pumps can't cope.'
'Seal it off, damn it!' Swift growled. 'Where the hell is our fighter cover?'
'Five minutes out, sir.'
'The bandits must have picked them up on radar, sir,' Cannonball said. 'They're bugging out to the north.'
'About damn time,' Swift said. 'Looks like the damage has already been done.'
The San Franciscolt was crippled and slowly filling up with water. The missile impacts had buckled and punctured several bulkheads and watertight doors, and the flooding was extending to otherwise undamaged compartments. With the engines and electrical system out of action, the primary pumps had no power, and the mechanical secondaries were overwhelmed. They were sinking, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Swift looked at each of his bridge officers in turn. He knew what order he had to give. He activated the microphone on his console.
'All hooves, this is the Captain. Abandon ship. I say again, abandon ship.'