**Chapter 831: The Era of Global Ebullition (9)**

The US Pacific Fleet committed 14 aircraft carriers, 12 battleships, and a total of 208 cruisers, destroyers, and frigates to this decisive battle. For this showdown, every warship capable of reaching Hawaii had come.

The four carrier groups and four battleships that couldn't come were all fighting in the Solomon Islands; this was already the minimum force the US Navy could maintain for escort operations there, and not a single ship could be spared.

The Japanese committed 177 warships, centered around 10 aircraft carriers and 9 battleships. This was the entirety of the fleet Japan could muster. Any increase in vessels would require a request for support from China.

The Combined Fleet had determined that the US carriers carried an average of 75 aircraft, making a total of 1,050 fighters for the 14 carriers. The Japanese used the standard aircraft carriers of the Asian Allied Forces, each carrying approximately 100 aircraft. The air strength of the two sides was 1,000 to 1,050—essentially a match.

As for battleships, Yamaguchi Tamon didn't pay them much heed. Based on extensive testing, a single group of fighters equipped with torpedoes was sufficient to deal with a combat formation centered on 12 US battleships. Moreover, the Japanese also had 9 battleships, so they were not at a disadvantage in terms of combat power.

According to reconnaissance reports, the average distance between the US and Japanese carrier groups was approximately 450 kilometers; after taking off, the fighters would need only an hour to reach the enemy carriers.

At 5:19 AM on June 11, the Japanese fighter formations radioed headquarters: the US carriers had been sighted, and they were preparing to begin the attack. At 5:25 AM, the US carrier-based aircraft also arrived near the Japanese carrier groups and began their strike.

Interestingly, both the US and Japanese carriers were steaming north at approximately 30 knots, keeping the relative distance between the formations almost constant.

The last major carrier battle had been 100 days ago. After 100 days of preparation, while there were no breakthrough developments in electronic equipment, both sides had made numerous improvements in actual combat details. As the fighters of both sides became entangled, the bombers encountered a more fierce and three-dimensional anti-aircraft fire net during their attack.

While the aluminum foil scattered through the air could affect radar detection, the anti-aircraft radars of both fleets now used different frequency bands. Radars capable of detecting enemy signals transmitted data rapidly through the fleet's signal transmission systems. The fleet's anti-aircraft fire continued to fire at the enemy planes in an orderly fashion. Whether Japanese or American, the bombers in this net of fire were like moths to a flame, falling into the sea in flames one after another.

Seeing that the first wave of heavy attacks had been easily dealt with, the air commanders of both sides immediately ordered the second wave to begin. This was the meaning of "a kind man cannot lead an army"—even knowing the probability of a fighter breaking through the fire net was less than 30%, and the probability of hitting an enemy ship less than 10%, hundreds of fighters were sent just to increase the success rate through sheer numbers. If one lacked even this determination, they should have stayed home with their mother.

Both sides had discovered in combat exercises that the anti-aircraft net was most effective at the start of the engagement. As the battle unfolded, various gaps would appear in the distribution of the net. the subsequent combat relied on the commanders' keen observation and effective judgment to let the following attacks cut through these gaps.

Sure enough, the second wave soon yielded results. The USS Virginia was hit by three torpedoes in succession, while the Japanese battleship Kirishima was struck by two aerial bombs, completely disabling the command of its No. 3 turret.

Before the second wave had ended, the third wave began. Pilots from both sides charged through the gaps in the fire nets at all costs, launching attacks on the enemy warships. Meanwhile, the escorting fighters had also joined the fray.

A J-9 fighter from the Japanese carrier Saitama, carrying a torpedo, cut in and flew directly toward the carrier USS Lincoln at an altitude of about 80 meters above the sea. Anti-aircraft fire from the US cruisers and destroyers on either side fired fiercely, but this J-9 was lucky; the bullets all passed close by. Upon reaching a distance of 1,500 meters from the Lincoln, the Saitama pilot pressed the button; a torpedo entered the water and sped toward the Lincoln.

The pilot didn't have time to look at the white wake of the torpedo before pulling his plane up. At that moment, a US P-51 fighter that had been following the J-9 from above fired down upon it. The bullets shattered the cockpit glass, and the pilot inside was pulverized along with the cockpit.

Perhaps fortunately, the P-51 pilot used 20mm cannons. When the first 20mm shell pierced the Japanese fighter's canopy, it entered directly through the pilot's chest, shattered his spine, passed through the flight seat, and exited through the bottom of the plane. The pilot on the Saitama died instantly from the heavy blow, suffering no pain before death.

The plane of Lieutenant Frank, a pilot from the USS Franklin, was already burning. Even through the flight seat, Frank felt the rolling heat from behind. He had participated in the previous carrier battle near the Marianas and Marshalls; only three people in his squadron had survived.

Frank knew he wouldn't escape this time. He had once applied to leave the unit and tried other ways, but none had succeeded. Finally, he had to fly again. And this time, his luck had run out.

Realizing his fate, a wave of hatred surged in Frank's chest. Since this world wouldn't let him live, he would take someone with him. His plane was still controllable, so Frank steered it toward a Japanese carrier ahead and to the side.

The burning plane indeed struck the deck of the Japanese carrier Saitama. The decks of the Asian Allied carriers used special steel produced in China, and since Frank had hit it at a shallow angle despite his intentions, the burning fighter did not punch a hole, or even a large crater. The P-51's landing gear snapped, letting out a piercing sound as the plane slid across the deck for thirty meters in a spray of sparks and electricity before coming to a stop.

Ground crews rushed forward, first spraying large amounts of fire suppressant on the burning plane. They managed to suppress the flames. A crewman in a thick protective suit pulled open the canopy, unbuckled the harness, and dragged Lieutenant Frank out of the cockpit.

Because of the violent impact, Frank's ribs were almost all broken. More lethally, during the collision, his chest had slammed into the control stick, and a broken rib had pierced his internal organs. The Lieutenant felt agonizing pain, but his body wouldn't move at all. Although he hoped to survive, the severe injuries were causing his mind to wander. He didn't even see the Japanese ground crew driving a forklift to scoop up the shattered main body of the P-51 and push it toward the edge of the carrier.

On the swaying Saitama, the forklift reached the edge, where it might have slid into the sea because of the ship's roll. Although anti-skid devices were installed on the carrier to help the forklift stop safely, such an operation was inherently high-risk; there was no absolute safety.

Before long, the skilled Japanese ground crewman had pushed the wreckage of the P-51 to the edge, the forklift stopping steadily by the anti-skid device. As the forks were raised, the broken P-51 seemed to receive a push and slid into the sea. Seeing the major danger removed, the ground crews involuntarily cheered. Even those busy cleaning up small scattered parts cheered as they worked.

Lieutenant Frank was now in his final moments, the voices around him no longer meaning anything to him. Just then, a voice in broken English reached his ears: "Lieutenant, I am Captain Murakami, who studied at the Virginia Naval Academy. Your heroism is admirable even to me, your enemy. I wonder if you have any last words to say?"

Though he heard the voice, Frank couldn't grasp the meaning. Of course, the broken English had a Virginia accent, and Frank was a Texan. But his mother tongue did awaken his emotions, and he whispered, "Mama, mama..."

Captain Murakami, in charge of damage control, was momentarily stunned, a look of sadness appearing on his face. While the Japanese soldiers nearby were furious at this reckless enemy, they turned their faces away in anger upon hearing these words.

In this world, every nation has its own language. Within one country, different regional dialects can seem like foreign tongues. but in all civilizations, only the word "mama" is universal.

Lieutenant Frank was lucky; his identity and last words were recorded and sent back to America after the war. But on the battlefield at this moment, the Japanese didn't spend much time on the matter. The primary reason Captain Murakami tried to speak with Frank was that his act of crashing his plane into the carrier reminded Murakami of the suicide attacks China had launched against the British fleet in 1924.

Although China hadn't conducted suicide crashes since then, the 1924 actions near Shanghai had yielded great results, and that spirit of disregard for one's own life had left an indelible impression on the world's navies—especially on the Japanese officers and men watching from a distance.

Frank's crash had awakened the memories of Captain Murakami, who had been in the Japanese observation fleet then, which was why he had come over to try and communicate, hoping for an answer.

Since Lieutenant Frank couldn't say anything more, Murakami hurried back to his command post and told the Saitama's commander what he had done. The carrier's commander soon reported the incident to Combined Fleet Commander Yamaguchi Tamon.

Yamaguchi didn't even need to think before answering decisively: "If the US had such a plan, the pattern of this attack would be completely different. I believe this was merely an individual act. Do not be shaken by it!"

Ending the call, the Saitama's commander remained a bit worried but didn't let it affect his command further. Yamaguchi, however, couldn't help but reflect with emotion on that scene from early 1924, where a few small fighters had dealt a fatal blow to a detachment of the then-invincible British Royal Navy. That sky-reaching fire was still clearly visible in his memory.

Before seeing the Chinese suicide attacks with his own eyes, Yamaguchi hadn't been very willing to accept Chinese leadership of Asia; after that, his mind had changed.

As for whether the US would send suicide planes, Yamaguchi believed it hadn't come to that stage yet. Even if they lost the Hawaiian Islands, the Americans could still retreat to the North American continent for defense. But from current indications, the Asian Allied fleet was destined to launch a campaign to land in North America; at that time, the "barbaric" Americans would display a madness unimaginable today.

Even now, hadn't a US pilot chosen to crash his plane into a ship when certain of death? And those US pilots in the sky, performing incredibly frantic maneuvers, were also betting their lives.

On the US carriers, those sharing such reflections were not the American sailors and airmen—who were currently focusing every bit of mental energy on the battle—but the British naval observation mission on the US battleships.

Britain was, after all, a naval power, the former number one navy in the world. Even if they had fallen behind, the depth of their officers' heritage remained, and the battle between the US and Japan left the British observers spellbound. In the initial view of the British officers, any attack would find it hard to succeed against the American computer-assisted anti-aircraft system.

Yet the Japanese, from scattering aluminum foil to the first wave of fighters sacrificing themselves to tie up the US defense system, to the subsequent groups cutting through the defensive gaps... such a fluid yet brutally cruel operation made the British officers understand that the British Empire had truly fallen behind the world's most advanced level.

This was no longer just a lag in production or technology, but a comprehensive one. Even if Britain possessed the American carrier groups today, the Royal Navy couldn't be sure how long it would take to train such excellent airmen. Especially what left the British officers feeling helpless was that such excellent pilots were being used merely as a war consumable. Even if Britain had trained such pilots, they couldn't afford to send them to their deaths.

But war equipment had reached its current level; if Britain sent a group of low-level pilots, the advanced anti-aircraft systems would simply crush them, making it impossible to sink the enemy.

"These people are beasts!" a British officer exclaimed. This sentiment was echoed by the others. The American and Japanese pilots in the sky were indeed fighting with a beast-like ferocity.

Since it was a beast-like struggle, bloodshed was inevitable. The first wave was almost exhausted and had to retreat, only for both sides to launch their second waves immediately.

The sacrifice of the first wave was not without value; both sides had determined the limits of the other's defensive system and confirmed they could continue the fight. Furthermore, the commanders of both fleets had reasons why they *had* to continue. Their carriers had been at sea for months and were nearing the point where they required port maintenance regardless of combat.

Mechanical failures accumulated during long operations were a disadvantage to oneself but an advantage to the attacker. The enemy's ships were likely to have weaknesses in various areas; with a bit of luck, a hit could yield immense results.

As the commanders expected, the second wave was more technically sophisticated and even bloodier. Right at the start, capital ships on both sides were damaged. By the second round of the second wave, the USS Arizona and the Japanese carrier Taiho were both struck by multiple torpedoes in succession. Seawater poured through the gashes, and the hulls began to list rapidly.

The carrier commanders immediately ordered the crews to evacuate. The men who had been desperately fighting to save their ships dropped their work upon hearing the order and began the retreat.

On the Chinese-designed carriers, all evacuation indicator lights were lit. These lights were shaped like arrows, so the men didn't need to ask their officers; they only had to follow the arrows to reach the various emergency exits. At regular intervals, there were life jacket stations. Japanese sailors who hadn't had time to get a life jacket could grab one at any of these points.

This design had initially been mocked by the Japanese Navy, who considered it a violation of naval tradition. The Chinese Navy had calmly replied, "China has no naval tradition; we design ships according to our own concepts." The Chinese philosophy was simple: a ship can be rebuilt if lost, but the officers and men carefully trained by the Navy are more valuable, especially in terms of time.

Now, the Japanese sailors suddenly felt that these lights and life jacket stations were so lovely. They allowed their fear to be maximally suppressed. In the moment when they had to abandon ship, when the command system was no longer functioning normally, the sailors could still receive orders and directions.

The situation on the US side was much worse. Although the US Navy conducted abandon-ship drills, they didn't have automated guidance for evacuation. When the word came to retreat, many posts still relied on manual notification. Naturally, much time was lost. Especially at posts in the lower levels, the massive holes blown by torpedoes allowed seawater to pour in, blocking escape routes. In their desperation, the American sailors forgot the emergency passages and could only watch frantically as the water rushed in.

Congestion became a major problem in the upper passages; once a narrow corridor was blocked, it was extremely difficult to clear. Since these were the passages the sailors were used to in their daily lives, everyone crowded into them in their panic, completely sealing them off.

Over the past few months, both US and Chinese torpedo technology had improved, with many new devices installed. Although the precision of the torpedoes had actually decreased, their power had increased greatly. Seawater rushed through the gaps.

In less than 40 minutes, the heavily damaged carriers of both nations had completely capsized and then began to sink rapidly. Of the 4,109 men on the USS Arizona, 2,876 were killed or missing. Of the 4,155 on the Japanese carrier Taiho, 1,766 were killed or missing.

And this was only the beginning. The more ships that sank, the more gaps appeared in the anti-aircraft nets. Both sides simultaneously launched their final attack waves, wanting to deliver a killing blow before they themselves were finished—leaving nothing in reserve.

When the last wave of aircraft reached the battlefield, they saw thick smoke rolling over the sea, many burning vessels listing in various directions, some floating, others slowly sinking.

There were carriers and battleships among them. The remaining enemy ships were still in formation, retreating. Faced with this last chance, the pilots of both sides refused to let it go, and the battle unfolded with unprecedented ferocity on the sea and in the air.