Marvel: The Silver-Haired Hacker and Her Mecha Fleet

The freezing waters of the North Atlantic seemed fully ignited by an artillery duel spanning seven decades.

The heavy sea fog, which had blinded the modern fleet moments ago, was ripped to shreds by a suddenly surging westerly wind immediately following the Bismarck's second salvo.

The dense cloud cover fractured. Golden-red sunlight pierced the gloom, spilling over the churning, dark-blue ocean. The illumination stripped away the shroud, dragging both fleets into stark, terrifying visibility.

Everyone on the bridge of the USS Hornet stared at the horizon. Three steel leviathans were silhouetted against the morning sun.

Anchored in the center of the formation, the Bismarck stood immovable amidst the swells. Its massive hull commanded the ocean. The four twin 380mm main gun turrets rested like dormant beasts, their muzzles still perfectly tracking the Zumwalt. The black-and-white Iron Cross of the old-world navy snapped violently from the mast, glaring in the sunlight.

Leading the vanguard, the Prinz Eugen had completed its sweeping turn to secure the T-junction. Its hull directly bisected the American path. All eight of its 203mm main guns were elevated and locked. The ship's aggressive, razor-sharp lines perfectly encapsulated the apex of World War II heavy cruiser design.

Trailing at the rear, the flight deck of the Graf Zeppelin gleamed with cold malice under the sun. Carrier-based aircraft launched continuously from its steam catapults, swarming the sky like angry wasps as they climbed to attack altitude.

Three Iron Blood warships that belonged at the bottom of the ocean were floating on the North Atlantic, launching a devastating assault against the absolute pinnacle of modern naval power.

"My God..." The captain of the USS Arleigh Burke gasped over the fleet comms. He stared at the Prinz Eugen through his maximum-magnification electro-optical sight. His voice cracked with sheer absurdity. "It really is the Prinz Eugen. A World War II heavy cruiser. What is happening? Is this a holographic projection? Some kind of psy-op?!"

"That is no projection! That first-salvo straddle was real! Those intercepted Tomahawks were real!" the captain of the USS Laboon roared back. "Target port side! MK-45 naval guns, maximum rapid fire! Fire control, paint the Prinz Eugen! Open fire!"

Simultaneously, the Prinz Eugen holding the horizontal T-junction and the three Arleigh Burke-class destroyers trapped in the vertical column erupted in a furious gun duel.

The MK-45 Mod 4 127mm naval guns mounted on the bows of the three American destroyers fired first. The automated electric turrets pumped out absolute hellfire at their maximum rate of twenty rounds per minute.

Modern automated naval artillery eclipsed the manual loading speeds of World War II. In under ten seconds, more than thirty 127mm high-explosive shells hammered the Prinz Eugen, erupting into towering geysers of water.

However, to the absolute horror of the American crews, the shells that successfully struck the Prinz Eugen only detonated against the superstructure.

Fireballs consumed the bridge, shattered the anti-aircraft nests, and obliterated the optical rangefinders, sending steel shrapnel flying. Yet the cruiser's main armor belt remained completely unfazed. It did not buckle. It did not even crack.

[Target armor equivalent thickness: 80 to 100 millimeters. Surface is carburized and hardened. 127mm high-explosive ordnance lacks sufficient kinetic penetration to compromise the main armor belt, magazines, or engineering compartments!]

The Fire Control Officer's damage report was laced with absolute despair.

Fury gripped the command console, his knuckles turning white. His lone eye darkened with gravity.

He understood the tactical disparity perfectly. The 127mm guns on an Arleigh Burke were multi-purpose tools designed for land-attack support and engaging soft surface targets. They had minimal armor-piercing capabilities.

Against a heavy cruiser explicitly designed to slug it out in massive big-gun fleet engagements, an 80mm surface-hardened armor belt was an impenetrable aegis. High-explosive shells simply scratched the paint. They could strip away the superstructure to blind the Prinz Eugen, but they could not deliver a killing blow to the hull.

And right in the briefest pause of the American barrage, the four twin 203mm main guns of the Prinz Eugen finished their reload cycle.

"Fire!"

Back in her apartment, Mira slammed the right trigger on her controller. Her eyes burned with manic excitement.

On the sunlit ocean, the Prinz Eugen's hull sank slightly under the recoil. Eight 203mm main guns roared simultaneously. Tongues of fire stretching dozens of meters erupted from the muzzles, blindingly bright against the ocean backdrop.

Eight 203mm armor-piercing capped shells shrieked toward the lead USS Arleigh Burke at nearly 800 meters per second.

The bridge crew watched the fiery meteors tear across the sky. Natasha grabbed Fury by the collar, shoved him violently beneath the tactical console, and screamed, "Phalanx! Intercept!"

[Phalanx Close-In Weapon System activated!]

The MK-15 Phalanx CIWS mounted on the stern of the USS Arleigh Burke whirred to life. The Gatling gun unleashed a torrential stream of depleted uranium rounds at 4,500 rounds per minute, weaving a desperate, impenetrable wall of lead in front of the ship.

Bang-bang-bang-bang!

Mid-air detonations cracked like thunder. Seven shells were successfully intercepted by the CIWS barrage, bursting into harmless shrapnel. However, the final 203mm shell pierced the wall of lead and slammed directly into the bow of the USS Arleigh Burke.

With a deafening crack, a crater over a meter wide was violently torn into the forward deck. The anchor winch and mooring bollards evaporated into dust. Razor-sharp shrapnel scythed across the forward plating.

Miraculously, because the modern destroyer's hull armor was so thin, the heavy 203mm armor-piercing shell over-penetrated. It punched clean through the ship without triggering its internal fuse.

"Flooding in the bow! Forward deck compromised! Primary MK-45 gun disabled!" The damage control officer's panicked report flooded the comms.

"Damn it!" Fury scrambled out from under the console. He stared at the rapidly approaching aircraft swarms on the radar scope. "All ships! Volley fire Standard-2 surface-to-air missiles! Clear the airspace! Zumwalt, paint the Bismarck with Tomahawks! Sink that leviathan!"

Before his orders could propagate, a blood-curdling, mechanical wail descended from the clouds.

It was the shriek of the Jericho trumpets—the psychological warfare sirens mounted to the fixed landing gear of the Stuka dive bombers.

The Siren-enhanced naval Stuka torpedo bombers pitched down from 3,000 meters. They dove at a near-vertical angle, the 250kg high-explosive bombs strapped beneath their wings already armed.

"Dive bombers! High altitude, port side!"

"SAMs! Fire now!"

The vertical launch cells on the three destroyers cycled rapidly. Standard-2 anti-aircraft missiles ripped into the sky atop pillars of fire.

However, the escorting ME-262 jet fighters immediately dove to intercept. Utilizing their massive kinetic energy advantage, the jets executed suicidal rams against the incoming SAMs. The resulting mid-air explosions violently tore open an anti-air corridor for the Stuka squadron.

In under ten seconds, the first wave of Stukas leveled out at 500 meters and smashed their bomb releases.

Dozens of 250kg high-explosive bombs rained down like steel hail. Most plunged into the ocean surrounding the three destroyers, detonating into towering columns of water. The concussive shockwaves violently rocked the ships, warping the hull plating below the waterline and rupturing internal mechanical pipelines.

Simultaneously, the three Arleigh Burke destroyers and the Zumwalt finalized their second anti-ship volley.

This time, they abandoned the sea-skimming trajectory. They opted for a vertical top-attack profile. Sixteen Tomahawk missiles rocketed into the stratosphere, executed high-altitude turns, and plummeted toward the Bismarck at a near-ninety-degree angle.

Mira watched the trajectory telemetry on her screen. She raised an eyebrow but kept her finger off the intercept button.

[Mira, incoming projectiles are utilizing a vertical top-attack trajectory. The 105mm flak batteries possess an interception efficiency of less than thirty percent against this angle. Shall I engage the localized CIWS grid to supplement defense?] The Builder asked, a flicker of genuine caution in her golden eyes.

"Stand down." Mira smiled, entirely unbothered. "We came here to play a game. It is no fun if we do not let them swing back. Let them hit us. I want to see if modern cruise missiles can actually punch through the Bismarck's citadel armor."

She wasn't here to rack up a body count. Her objective was to derail HYDRA's mutiny, give Fury a massive wake-up call, and blow off some steam. Sinking the American escort fleet would escalate the timeline into pure chaos, ruining her long-term strategy.

Furthermore, she was genuinely curious if the Bismarck—boasting some of the thickest armor of its era—could tank a modern top-attack strike after receiving Siren mass-production upgrades.

In the brief pause, the sixteen Tomahawks plunged over the Bismarck. Their warheads detonated instantly upon striking the horizontal deck armor amidships.

Apocalyptic explosions swallowed the battleship.

Massive fireballs consumed the Bismarck's midsection. Towering pillars of black smoke and boiling water shot into the sky. The leviathan shuddered violently beneath the sheer explosive tonnage. The strike wiped out the majority of the anti-aircraft emplacements and set the superstructure ablaze.

[Impact confirmed! Eight Tomahawk missiles successfully breached the horizontal armor amidships!]

[Boiler rooms critically compromised! Boilers Two and Three offline! Steam turbine output reduced by sixty percent! Velocity decreased from 30 knots to 14 knots!]

[Localized horizontal armor breach. Secondary Magazine Three detonated. Zero casualties registered on unmanned pawn. Main armor belt integrity, primary gun turrets, and fire control systems remain operational with minor degradation.]

Mira read the scrolling damage report and let out an impressed whistle. "Not bad at all. It ate eight Tomahawks and can still return fire. I will take it."

To a remote-control player like Mira, losing half the boilers just meant her movement speed dropped. Her main gun dispersion simply became a bit worse—exactly like playing a damaged battleship in World of Warships.

But on the bridge of the USS Hornet, the crew stared in abject horror.

Eight Tomahawk missiles had scored direct hits. That payload should have snapped a modern cruiser in half. Yet, on the radar screen, the Bismarck's massive signature held firm. Even worse, the main gun turrets were slowly rotating out of the smoke, re-acquiring the Zumwalt!

"What kind of monster is this?!" The captain of the Zumwalt practically sobbed over the comms. "Eight Tomahawks failed to sink it?! What the hell is that armor made of?!"

Fury's face darkened like a thunderhead. He finally accepted the terrifying reality. They were not fighting an antique ship. They were fighting an apocalyptic war machine wrapped in the nostalgic shell of a World War II dreadnought, powered by technology that defied modern science.

Suddenly, a new, shrill alarm pierced the bridge.

[Torpedoes! High-speed incoming, port side!]

[Distance: 800 meters! Speed: 45 knots! Airborne deployment confirmed!]

The Stuka bombers, having expended their dive bombs, leveled out inches above the sea surface. Less than a thousand meters from the American fleet, they dropped their aerial torpedoes.

Dozens of torpedoes hit the water, churning white wakes like a pack of starving sharks as they shrieked toward the waterlines of the three Arleigh Burke destroyers.

"Emergency evasive! Hard to starboard!"

"Deploy acoustic decoys! Now!"

The three destroyers threw their rudders hard over, carving frantic, desperate arcs through the ocean. Anti-torpedo decoys fired from their launchers, detonating to create massive acoustic interference walls beneath the waves.

The decoys successfully spoofed half the spread, but eight torpedoes slipped through the noise and slammed violently into the flanks of the three destroyers.

Muffled, catastrophic underwater detonations shook the ocean.

Massive hydrostatic pressure obliterated the destroyers' waterline plating. Freezing seawater violently flooded the lower decks. The three ships immediately took on severe lists. Their propulsion systems failed sequentially. In an instant, the mighty Aegis destroyers were reduced to dead-in-the-water floating targets.

Yet, throughout the entire chaotic engagement, not a single torpedo, bomb, or naval shell had been fired at the USS Hornet in the center of the formation.

Mira had exercised precise restraint. Her goal was never to sink American sailors, nor was it to harm the sleeping Captain America. She was merely flipping the game board to discipline HYDRA and ring the alarm bell for Nick Fury.

Just as the Graf Zeppelin prepared to launch its second wave to completely neutralize the fleet, over a dozen high-speed aerial contacts flared on the northeast quadrant of the radar.

[High-speed aerial hostiles detected! Eight F-35B VTOL fighters and four S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjets approaching from 80 nautical miles! Estimated time to intercept: three minutes!]

[Hostiles have achieved radar lock on our airwing! Fire control active!]

Mira raised an eyebrow and finally set down her gamepad.

The USAF base in Iceland and S.H.I.E.L.D. Command had scrambled their QRF faster than she expected.

"Graf Zeppelin, abort the second wave. Have the ME-262 squadron cover the retreat. All aircraft are to return to the carrier immediately," Mira ordered smoothly. "Bismarck, Prinz Eugen, hold your main gun locks but hold your fire. Let us wait for the cavalry to arrive."

[Command verified. Airwing retreat initiated. ME-262 squadron has established a defensive rearguard.]

Over the North Atlantic, the shrieking Stukas immediately pulled up and banked hard back toward the Graf Zeppelin. The ME-262 jets assembled into a tight defensive wall in the sky, their noses pointed dead at the approaching F-35s.

With the aerial threat retreating, the battered American fleet finally drew a breath. Damage control teams flooded the lower decks like madmen, fighting fires and sealing breached bulkheads. The air was thick with the wail of klaxons and desperate shouting.

On the bridge of the Hornet, Fury exhaled a heavy sigh as the allied fighter blips approached on radar. However, the dark gravity in his eye remained.

He stared through the reinforced glass. The Bismarck sat bleeding thick black smoke, yet its gargantuan main guns remained perfectly aimed at his fleet. The Graf Zeppelin sat completely untouched on the horizon. A cold sweat soaked Fury's back.

He realized the enemy had not fired a single shot at the Hornet. Even their torpedo spreads deliberately avoided his flight path.

They weren't trying to sink him. They never intended to harm Captain America.

So why were they here?

To use antique ghost ships to systematically humiliate his bleeding-edge escort fleet and then walk away?

Natasha's fingers flew across her console, but her eyes remained locked on the three leviathans flying the black-and-white Iron Cross. Her brow was knit in deep suspicion.

The entire ambush felt theatrical. It was violent, yes, but the surgical avoidance of the Hornetand the deliberate maiming—rather than sinking—of the escorts felt pointed. It was as if someone was sending a message.

Thousands of miles away in Queens, Mira sank deep into her beanbag chair. She squeezed The Builder and watched the F-35 squadron enter the airspace on her monitor. A playful smirk touched her lips.

The Quinjets had arrived. Air superiority was lost.

It was time for the halftime show of Operation Rheinübung.

—Opening sea valves—

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