The Lone Queen Of The North

(RE-WRITE) Prologue

         A young man floated upon the frigid waters of the Baltic, clinging desperately to a piece of debris that had been washed out to sea. He was one of the lucky few that had survived the aerial bombardment that wrecked the old Sachsen; a derelict warship of the now defunct German Navy.

        The Great European War had seen the destruction of many once powerful nations, as well as shattered the remnants of the major navies. And that was not even counting the menace thay was the Fog Fleet; a term given to advanced warships that held the appearances of Second World War Era vessels.

       The man, a former sailor and lieutenant of the German navy couldn't even remember how the world lost access to the oceans. He only relied on stories told by his parents and grand-parents; the former of whom were both veterans of the decisive, and ultimately disastrous, naval battle which saw the complete annihilation of the American, Japanese, Australian, and New Zealand navies. A few German ships were present to support their NATO allies, but the majority of them were also destroyed.

       The Sachsen was amongst the few surviving ships, and upon return to Germany, it was permanently moored and the crew were transferred to the army as the rapid deterioration of the European Union signaled the upcoming war for survival.

       It was during this time that Michael Baumann grew up and became who he was. His childhood was far from ordinary as the earliest years of life were strictly regulated and he was thrust into the role of being a soldier at a young age. Despite being a member of the Navy and holding the rank of lieutenant by his 24th birthday, he quickly learned that it was more or less ceremonial. The Navy was nonexistent in all but name, and with the Great European War looming ahead; everyone was an infantryman and ranked at a private, with a few being ranked as high as sergeant.

       Michael was one such individual; a man who was inexperienced in the intricacies of ground warfare. The squads he had inadvertently led to their deaths were testament enough....

        Shivering upon the planks of wood that he found himself on, Michael muttered out a simple prayer; pleading with whatever deity was listening to allow him to survive one more day on this accursed world. He didn't want to die. Not yet. He still had many unfulfilled desires. He wanted to see his family again, he wanted to finally know peace. He had enough of fighting people just for the basic necessities like food and water.

      His mind soon drifted to his sister; Valerie. The last time he had seen her was when she was part of the operating staff that tried to save his left arm when he had been wounded during a breakthrough attempt by French tanks.

        Michael looked down at the stub where his prosthetic used to be. All that remained were severed cables and some jagged fragments. He shivered again and curled up in a futile attempt to somehow warm himself up. But it was to no avail since the action only served to destabilize his position on the debris field; threatening to throw him completely into the water.

        The man sighed; his breath shaky. He had no doubt drifted far enough away from shore that he may be closer to Denmark rather than Germany. Perhaps the Danish would be hospitable. Perhaps not, since the Norwegian commandos had managed to establish a permanent presence there as well, prior to being cut off from their homeland.

        Closing his eyes after a while, Michael embraced the fact that he was doomed to drift on the Baltic; slowly waiting for nature to take its course. Would he die of dehydration? Hypothermia? Perhaps neither. Maybe he would lose all his strength and simply slip beneath the waves. The man couldn't decide which fate was worse. But he know one thing for certain; he would die.

         And so, as the light faded from his vision; Michael smiled one final time, being free at last.

         Drifting further out from shore; the man slowly slipped from consciousness, the sounds of an increasingly disturbed sea just barely registered to his ears. A ship? Out here? Was it friendly? Or was it hostile? Or was it even a ship to begin with? Michael did not care. He was dying, so auditory hallucinations were probably what he was hearing.