Scrapyard Ship 7: Call to Battle by Mark Wayne McGinnis

the large TV screen. Two TVs were tuned to North Korean news channels, showing helicopter shots of Kumsusan Palace, and the fleet of Craing warships parked on its sprawling quad. One TV was tuned to an old Gilligan’s Island rerun, while another displayed a feed from some high-level meeting; no fewer than ten military officers, clad in dark-green uniforms that were decorated with ornate chest ribbons and gold shoulder stars, stood like wax statues, their faces looking back at him in stunned attention. So, while his country sent a nuclear warhead toward America’s fiftieth state, this little shit was playing video games. The absurdity of it made Jason’s blood boil.
    Kim Jung Un smiled up at Jason and then resumed, slowly at first, to chew on the popcorn kernels still in his mouth.
    Jason stepped over a small tower of comic books lying scattered about the floor and sat down next to North Korea’s supreme leader.
    “As of now, we are taking control of your country. When you learn to play nice with your neighbors, perhaps someday you will get it back.”
    No one spoke. Jason said something into his comms and then gestured toward the TV, currently showing the fleet of U.S. warships sitting on the quad of Kumsusan Palace. The Lilly rose slowly into the air, only five hundred feet or so. Small cannons appeared beneath her underbelly. In a spectacular blaze of plasma fire, The Lilly let loose a fire barrage for nearly ten seconds. The cannons then retracted back into the ship’s hull and The Lilly resettled down onto the quad.
    Jason was on his comms; out of habit he placed two fingers to his ear. He nodded and looked over at the North Korean leader.
    “There are now none remaining of the few nuclear warheads your country possessed. Even their silos have been eradicated. Your air force and naval assets have also been destroyed. For all intent and purpose, your country is now totally defenseless.”
    Chatter erupted from the TV feed up on the wall. The military officers, earlier stone-faced and quiet, were now in frenzied states of agitation. One of the officers was standing, screaming at the camera, trying to get Kim Jong Un’s attention.
    Jason was being hailed.
    “Go for Captain.”
    “Change of plan,” the admiral said.
    “What’s up?”
    “We need to get you and The Lilly , and your convoy, back into space.”
    “We haven’t quite finished here,” Jason said.
    “We’ll take care of the Russians later. I’ve dispatched another light cruiser to take up residence in Pyongyang Square. We need you up at the line … The Craing fleet is on the move.”

Chapter 8
     
     
     
    Rain continued to buffet her two, side-by-side bedroom windows. She pulled the curtains further apart and peered upward, toward the sky. The tallest of the six surrounding castle spires disappeared into the dark, menacing clouds above, never seeming to move away.
    Dira lifted her arms up to let El, her young handmaiden, pull the silver mesh gown over her head. El gripped the sheer, snug fitting fabric on both sides of Dira’s body and, with two practiced hands, pulled the garment down over her breasts and upper torso. The two briefly made eye contact.
    “This is ridiculous, El. Seriously … I don’t need a dresser,” Dira said, trying to contain her irritation. “And I certainly don’t need to be dressed up like this.”
    El made a resigned expression, which bespoke she’d heard the same complaint a thousand times before. She continued to adjust the bodice until the material lay flat over Dira’s belly, then smoothed it around her narrow hips. The full length of the gown blossomed out into shimmering, cascading folds that fell lightly to the floor.
    “Nonsense, you’re a princess … soon to be queen.”
    Dira’s eyes shot to the dresser’s face. “Watch your tongue, El!”
    El stood back and placed a hand over her heart, bowing her head. “I apologize, my princess. That was incredibly callous of me … heartless.”
    Dira’s