Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

The deck of the VNS Stormhawk roared with activity as the crew readied for another strike. Ground crews scurried under the dull red lights of the flight deck, hauling bombs and torpedoes onto the planes. Mechanics swarmed the aircraft, checking engines and patching bullet holes sustained in the previous sortie. The salty air was thick with tension, mingled with the faint hum of the carrier's engines.

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Commander Donovan stood at the edge of the deck, binoculars in hand, watching the last remnants of twilight fade into the horizon. The Ruthenian fleet had taken a punishing blow earlier, but their core forces still held position. If they managed to regroup, they could turn the tide.

"Admiral Hall's orders are clear," Donovan barked to the deck crews. "We go again. This ends tonight."

In the hangar below, Lieutenant Henry Graves leaned against the wing of his dive bomber, the adrenaline of the first assault still coursing through his veins. His flight suit was streaked with oil and sweat, but his focus remained razor-sharp.

"Sword Squadron, gather up!" Graves called, his voice carrying over the din of preparations. His squadron assembled quickly, their faces a mix of exhaustion and determination.

"What's the plan, Lieutenant?" asked Yuri Antonov, Graves's wingman, his helmet tucked under one arm.

Graves knelt by a makeshift map spread across a crate. "The Vulkan is crippled, but she's not sunk yet. We're going back to finish her off. The Ruthenians are regrouping behind their destroyer screen, so we're hitting them hard and fast. Sword Squadron will focus on the battleships. Shield Squadron will handle the destroyers. We clear the path for the torpedo planes."

"Another day at the office," Antonov quipped, a thin smile tugging at his lips.

"Stay sharp," Graves said, his tone serious. "The flak's only going to get worse."

Onboard the RNS Vulkan, the situation was dire. Captain Pavel Grigorovich stood in the damaged bridge, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a dying console. The battleship's deck was a twisted mess of fire and wreckage, and water poured into the lower compartments faster than the pumps could manage.

"Status report!" Grigorovich demanded, gripping the edge of the chart table to steady himself against the ship's tilt.

"Flooding is uncontrollable, Captain," reported an officer, his face pale. "We've lost the forward magazines, and our main guns are inoperable. The destroyers are holding position, but we've detected Valorian aircraft inbound."

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Grigorovich's jaw tightened. "So they're coming back to finish the job," he muttered. "Order all remaining ships to form a defensive line. We'll buy time for the fleet to retreat."

"Captain, if they breach our perimeter—"

Grigorovich silenced him with a glare. "We hold the line, Lieutenant. To the last shell."

The Stormhawk turned into the wind, its deck illuminated by faint running lights. Planes lined up for launch, engines growling as pilots climbed into their cockpits. Graves settled into his seat, his hands instinctively gripping the controls.

"Sword Leader to Tower, requesting clearance for takeoff," Graves said into his radio.

"Cleared for takeoff, Sword Leader," the reply came.

The bomber jolted forward, accelerating down the deck before lifting into the night sky. One by one, the rest of Sword Squadron followed, forming up into a tight V-shaped formation. Behind them, torpedo planes from Shield Squadron and a cover of fighters took to the air, the hum of engines filling the night.

The Ruthenian defensive line lit up as the first wave of Valorian planes came into view. Searchlights swept the sky, their beams cutting through the darkness, while anti-aircraft guns roared to life. Tracer rounds arced upward, painting fiery trails against the black canvas of the sky.

"Incoming fire, twelve o'clock!" Graves shouted as the formation broke to evade the barrage.

A Ruthenian destroyer, the RNS Proryv, unleashed a barrage of flak rounds, the explosions rocking the Valorian planes. One bomber took a direct hit, its wing shearing off as it spiraled into the sea.

"Stay focused!" Graves barked. "We're almost there!"

Through the chaos, the hulking silhouette of the Vulkan emerged, its deck illuminated by the flames of uncontrolled fires. Graves angled his plane into a steep dive, his target fixed on the battleship's exposed midsection.

"Bombs away!" he shouted, releasing his payload.

The first bomb struck the Vulkan amidships, detonating with a thunderous explosion that sent debris skyward. Secondary explosions followed as fires reached the ammunition stores, tearing the ship apart from within. Graves pulled up hard, his plane shuddering from the shockwave.

"Direct hit!" Antonov called over the radio. "The Vulkan is finished!"

Below, the once-proud Ruthenian battleship began to list heavily to port, its hull cracking as seawater poured in. Sailors abandoned ship, their cries lost amidst the roar of explosions.

Meanwhile, Shield Squadron engaged the destroyers guarding the Ruthenian retreat. Torpedo planes skimmed the waves, their payloads unleashed in perfect synchrony. The RNS Ognennyy, a destroyer attempting to shield the fleet, was struck by two torpedoes, splitting it in half. The survivors scrambled for lifeboats as the wreckage sank into the dark waters.

Ruthenian fighters attempted to mount a defense, but Valorian fighters intercepted them, the night sky erupting into dogfights. Machine gun fire lit up the darkness as planes weaved and twisted in a deadly aerial ballet. A Ruthenian biplane caught fire, spiraling out of control before crashing into the sea.

"Enemy fighters neutralized," reported a Valorian pilot. "The skies are ours."

Onboard the Stormhawk, Admiral Hall monitored the battle through a map illuminated by red and green markers. Reports streamed in from the airborne squadrons, each confirming another blow to the Ruthenian fleet.

"Admiral," an officer said, "the Vulkan is confirmed sunk, and three destroyers are out of action. The remaining Ruthenian ships are scattering northward."

Hall leaned over the map, his eyes narrowing. "Signal the fleet to pursue. We don't stop until they're out of our waters."

As the first light of dawn broke over the South Atlantic, the battle was over. The Ruthenian fleet lay in ruins, their ships either sunk or retreating in disarray. The waters were littered with debris and oil slicks, the faint cries of survivors carried on the wind.

On the Stormhawk, the returning pilots were greeted with cheers and applause. Graves climbed out of his bomber, exhaustion etched into his face, but a small smile played at the corners of his lips.

"We did it," Antonov said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We broke them."

Graves nodded. "Yeah, but the war's not over yet."

In Volkshalle, the news of the victory reached Alexander. Standing by a window overlooking the city, he allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The Ruthenians had been dealt another crushing defeat, their naval power all but shattered.

"Your Excellency," Julieanne said, entering the room. "The fleet reports total success. The Ruthenian reinforcements have been neutralized."

Alexander turned to her, his expression calm but resolute. "Good. Prepare a statement for the people. Let them know that Valoria's waters are secure, and that we stand unyielding against any threat."

As Julieanne left, Alexander gazed out at the rising sun. The war was far from over, but for now, Valoria stood victorious, its path to dominance clearer than ever.