The salty breeze whipped across the Minutemen boat as it cut through the choppy waves, drawing ever closer to the imposing silhouette of Sarah's doll fleet. Sarah sat poised at the bow, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the massive aircraft carrier loomed like a steel behemoth, its flight deck bustling with distant activity. Flanking it was a formidable array of vessels: sleek destroyers slicing the water with predatory grace, sturdy cruisers bristling with missile launchers, and agile support ships darting like attendants. But dominating the formation's core, just astern of the carrier, was the crown jewel—the battleship Vanguard, a colossal relic of pre-war might retrofitted by the Dolls. Its towering superstructure pierced the sky, armored plating scarred from past skirmishes, and its massive gun turrets—triple-barreled behemoths capable of unleashing salvos that could level coastal fortifications—swiveled faintly as if in silent salute. The fleet's hulls gleamed under the midday sun, a testament to the meticulous care of her loyal android companions—the Dolls. Beside her, Curie, the ever-curious synth with her distinctive French accent and unyielding loyalty, adjusted her lab coat against the wind, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and analytical fascination.
The boat captain, a grizzled veteran with a weathered tricorn hat and a voice roughened by years at sea, steered them deftly toward the carrier's docking bay. He glanced back at Sarah, his expression one of reverent admiration. "What a magnificent sight," he murmured, his words carrying over the hum of the engine. "Thank you for allowing my boat to get this close. We'll be docking soon."
Sarah turned to him with a nod, her posture exuding the quiet authority that had earned her the respect of both humans and machines alike. "Thank you," she replied evenly. "Please continue your support to your general. The alliance between the Minutemen and my forces will be crucial in the days ahead."
Without further ado, as the boat gently bumped against the carrier's lowered platform, Sarah and Curie disembarked. The ramp extended with a hydraulic whine, welcoming them aboard. Behind them, the Minutemen boat peeled away, its captain saluting from the deck as it turned back toward the distant outline of the Castle, their fortified stronghold on the coast.
The interior of the aircraft carrier buzzed with controlled activity. Dolls in sleek tactical gear moved with precision, their synthetic eyes flickering with data streams as they monitored systems and prepared for whatever commands might come. Sarah led the way up the steep metal stairs, her boots echoing against the grated floors, Curie trailing close behind, her steps lighter but no less purposeful. The air inside was cooler, laced with the faint scent of oil and ozone—a familiar comfort to Sarah after weeks away on reconnaissance missions.
As they ascended, Sarah paused at a viewport, her eyes drawn to the Vanguard nearby. The battleship's Doll crew could be seen on its decks, performing maintenance with mechanical efficiency. One Doll, perched high on a turret, waved in acknowledgment—a subtle gesture that warmed Sarah's resolve. "The Vanguard looks ready for anything," Curie commented, her voice laced with scientific intrigue. "Zose guns... zey could vaporize any army battalion in one barrage."
Sarah nodded. "That's the idea. We've upgraded her targeting systems with latest algorithms. She'll be our hammer in the next offensive."
Emerging onto the vast flight deck, Sarah was greeted by a symphony of synchronized motion. Rows upon rows of Dolls stood at attention, their formations impeccable: the elite DEFY team with their high-tech visors and suppressed weaponry; the shadowy operatives of Squad 404, cloaked in digital camouflage; the frontline warriors of the AR team, rifles slung across their chests with parade-ground precision. They saluted as one, a sea of mechanical grace and unwavering devotion.
In the center of it all stood a Doll with flowing brown hair, her uniform crisp and adorned with subtle insignia. She cradled a vintage Springfield rifle in her arms, its polished wood and metal barrel catching the light—a relic from a bygone era, yet perfectly maintained. Her eyes, warm amber and strikingly human-like, met Sarah's with a depth of emotion that transcended her artificial origins. "Welcome back, Commander," she said, her voice steady and resonant as she snapped a sharp salute.
Sarah returned the gesture, a small smile breaking through her composed facade. "M1903," she acknowledged, using the Doll's designation with the familiarity of old comrades. "It's good to be home. Report on fleet status, including the Vanguard?"
The Doll—known affectionately as Springfield among her peers—lowered her hand and stepped forward. "All systems nominal, Commander. The fleet has maintained full operational readiness in your absence. We've repelled unknown scouting parties and integrated two new Doll recruits from the salvage ops. The Vanguard has completed her refit; main batteries are calibrated to 99.7% accuracy, and her armor plating has been reinforced with scavenged Institute tech. Morale is high; they've been eager for your return."
Springfield nodded crisply, her internal database pulling up the manifests with effortless precision. She gestured toward the horizon, where the ships rode the swells in tight formation, their Doll crews maintaining vigilant watch. "Of course, Commander. Our Atlantic Fleet is a salvaged armada, retrofitted for post-war operations. At its heart is our flagship, where we stand now: the CV-67 USS Eisenhower, a pre-war aircraft carrier of the Kitty Hawk class. She's our mobile command center, with a flight deck capable of launching Vertibird squads and Doll-piloted drones. Her hangars house over fifty aircraft, maintained by AR Team specialists."
She paused, her amber eyes flickering as she visualized the layout. "Flanking her are our destroyers: the DDG-51 USS Arleigh Burke, lead of her class, equipped with missile batteries for anti-air and surface warfare; the DDG-62 USS Fitzgerald, our electronic warfare expert, jamming enemy signals with Institute-derived tech; and the DDG-85 USS McCampbell, specialized in anti-submarine operations with sonar arrays scavenged from Boston Harbor wrecks."
"Next, our cruisers: the CG-47 USS Ticonderoga, our air defense powerhouse with Aegis systems upgraded by Curie's algorithms; and the CG-60 USS Normandy, providing long-range fire support with railgun prototypes we've installed."
Springfield's voice took on a note of pride as she continued. "The heavy hitters include the battleship BB-64 USS Wisconsin—renamed Vanguard in our service—a Iowa-class monster with nine 16-inch guns, now automated for Doll gunnery crews. She's our siege breaker, capable of pounding coastal targets from miles out. For support, we have the AO-187 USS Henry J. Kaiser, our oiler for refueling ops; the LSD-41 USS Whidbey Island, a dock landing ship for amphibious assaults with Marine Doll contingents.
"Finally, smaller vessels round us out: a pair of patrol boats, PC-1 USS Cyclone and PC-5 USS Zephyr, for close-in defense and escort duties. Total complement: eighteen ships, all under Doll command.
Sarah absorbed the report, her expression thoughtful as she stared out at the named vessels bobbing in the distance—the Eisenhower's deck vibrating faintly beneath her feet from the hum of its nuclear reactors. But a shadow crossed her face, memories of the wasteland's horrors surfacing. "What about the previous crew? Did they..."
Springfield's posture softened imperceptibly, her rifle shifting in her grip as she accessed the salvage logs. "When we found the fleet near Canada's East Coast—drifting off Nova Scotia's shores—most of them had abandoned their duties long ago. Turned to sea pirates, scavenging the Atlantic for scraps, or worse... many had succumbed to radiation, becoming feral ghouls that haunted the lower decks. It was after a century of abandonment since the Great War; the ships were ghost towns, overgrown with barnacles and rust. We cleared them out methodically, but it wasn't pretty. WaWa—WA2000—has been complaining nonstop about the 'primitive conditions' and missing you dearly. She's been sniping seagulls from the Vanguard's crow's nest just to pass the time."
Sarah let out a soft chuckle, though it carried a hint of melancholy. "Sounds like her. We'll have to pay her a visit soon." She straightened, her tone shifting to one of decisive command as she addressed Springfield and the assembled Dolls. "The Institute and Gunner crises are over—resolved in the Commonwealth's favor. That leaves only the raiders as a lingering threat for the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel to handle. Our work here is stabilizing; it's time to expand our reach. Prep the fleet for departure in the next two days. Set course for New York Harbor. We'll establish a new forward base there, scout for resources, and link up with any survivor enclaves. Make sure all systems are double-checked—fuel, munitions, Vertibird fuel cells.
The Dolls snapped to attention, a chorus of affirmatives rippling through the ranks as they dispersed to their stations with mechanical efficiency. Springfield lingered a moment, her eyes on Sarah. "Understood, Commander. New York... so are we going reclaim your own home town?"