50 metres deep, SB39 Desolation
3000km South of Elizabethstadt, Confederation of Corrupt Dictators international waters

“All hands, action stations. Rig for blue.” The klaxon blared through the submarine as men and women quickly, yet carefully, moved between compartments, ducking through hatches as the lighting snapped from the usual white light, to the calm blue of action stations. Those clustered in the submarine's control room blinked a few times, acclimatising their vision to the new lighting conditions, before resuming tasks that they had been conducting. The buzz in the boat was positively palpable.


“Prepare silos One, Two, Twenty Three and Twenty Four for launch.” There was no way in hell that Admiral of the Submarine Thalia Lista was going to sit back and let her subordinates handle this job, especially after the near miss that had come earlier in the year on her watch. That's why she was sitting in the conn of the rather aptly named Desolation, watching the man who had so royally f*cked up his job, Commander Erik Johanasson, carefully going through the motions of preparing to launch on of the most delicate operations he ever would.


Not everyday you actually get to nuke another country


The noises of pressurisation would be loud to anyone listening - she had tracked enough Albionian submarines in her time as an actual sailor to know that much, which is why there were no less than three attack submarines playing guard duty for the Desolation as she carried out her sensitive job. They’d already chased off a Canavral submarine that had decided to have a closer look at the boomer and her escorts as they made a high speed run down south.


Still - it was good to see that the collision between Siren and the Vectoj had been an isolated incident, not the fears of Johanasson running a lax boat.


The noise of jingling metal brought her attention back to the Commander, as the man withdrew a key from around his neck, wrapping the metal string around his fingers and clutching the key against his palm. He had good reason to feel nervous - even Thalia was, though she would never admit it. Both were saved from their internal thoughts by a voice calling out from across the room. “Conn-Fire Control, we are ready to begin firing procedure.”


Thalia stood from the collapsible chair she had been seated upon, reaching to her own neck for the regn key that she had around her throat in lieu of the executive officer of the boat. As she and Johanasson stood at either end of the console, the missile specialist sitting between them carefully and deliberately counted down to the pivotal moment. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Insert.”


In near harmony, the two keys entered the slots, sank half way, were twisted outwards, then pushed the rest of the way down and stuck fast with a soft click. In a heartbeat, two rows of a dozen green lights blazed to life along the top of the console they stood in front of. A second later, all of the lights, bar the two at either end, flashed to red, with the end silos lights flashing to blue - weapons primed.


Three silos of telemetric warheads - with Silo Two carrying a BMN-18 Rain IX thermonuclear missile, tipped uniquely with a single 20 Megaton warhead, and calibrated for a surface detonation as opposed to the usual airburst MIRV style of Loreauan ICBMs. Four mechanical sounding snaps filled the air as the silo doors locked open above them - so loud that anyone for miles would have heard them on sonar.


“Missiles One and Two ready for launch. Missile Twenty Three and Twenty Four calculating trajectory and flight path.” They were the important ones - they would be making the long trip to MineLegotia under their own power. It was really quite impressive the weapons could even range out that far. Still, the young man seated between the duo sounded exceptionally calm - disturbingly so given the power he had at his disposal. Were all missile specialists sociopaths? They had to be ready to annihilate millions at their whims so.. Perhaps.


“Missile Twenty Three and Twenty Four calculated trajectory and ready for launch.” The man swallowed visibly, betraying the nerves that sent a wave of relief washing over Thalia. They had some emotion at least.


The Admiral of the Submarines leant forwards, undoing the safety latch that revealed an ominous red button, surrounded by striped yellow and black markings. A strangely giddy sensation filled her as she poised her finger over the button, waiting for the all clear from the seated man. It took a second, but he nodded at her once.


Her finger depressed the button.


The first thing she felt was momentarily underwhelmed, before the submarine was filled with the noise of a short burst of decompression, filled the air, a sharp, sudden panic at her throat before it was summarily drowned out by the roar of missile engines blazing to life, followed a second later by a second decompression, and accompanying roar - not to mention the accompanying sigh of relief from some members of the crew as their very lethal payload was jettisoned. Then, more muted but still loud, another decompression, and another drowned out by the roar of missile boosters.


Then silence, the mechanical noise of hatches closing, and the silence as those on the bridge simply stared.


How - exactly, does one follow the launch of a nuclear weapon?